


Through Blood and Through Fire: A Brighter Morning

by ManiacsofTamriel



Series: Through Blood and Through Fire [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Cyrodiil, Drama, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Supernatural Elements, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-11-12 11:52:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 84,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11161299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ManiacsofTamriel/pseuds/ManiacsofTamriel
Summary: The closing of the gates was not the end. As the rest of Cyrodiil begins to heal and rebuild, Saraven and Zudarra must come to terms with their changed identities, their changing relationship, and a dreadful change yet to come... This is a sequel to TBaTF.





	1. Chapter 1

**Saraven**

 

Everything was different after Dagon fell.

 

Saraven fussed around Zudarra for as long as he dared, watching her become gradually less tolerant of solicitude as she grew stronger. That was a bit of a relief. A cranky Zudarra was a healthy Zudarra. After that, when they had left their hidey hole on the wall of the District, most people in the Imperial City were too busy trying to put back together their own lives to notice them for the first week or so. There would be a sound of nails being pounded and bricks being mortared for weeks and even months.

 

Saraven was irritable himself. Perhaps more than usual. Certainly more than usual. When at last they parted by common consent it was because he had snapped at her over something stupid – probably she had asked why he hadn't fed and did not want to go outside. He told her it was none of her business and she responded in kind, angry and hurt, and the whole thing had escalated until they essentially stamped out in opposite directions, she to the sunlight and the gradually mounting adulation of people with time to notice that it was that Cathay-raht Khajiit, he to the basement of the building until the sun went down.

 

Beating hearts surrounded him. It was in his power to refuse them even now, to choose not to give in to the vampiric lust that would forever express his only physical need. It was not in his power to ignore them completely. Their blood would be tepid and unsatisfying, he found himself thinking. There would never be another moment like the one when he had watched time slow down as the blood of daedra burned through his body. Sometimes he hurt for it, the roots of his teeth aching.

 

He would need to find a thrall. He was not yet old enough to just stop feeding and remain sane, and the ability to travel in daylight was a necessary convenience. He looked forward to it as an obnoxious necessity, not with any sort of enjoyment. The thought of feeding on Zudarra again did not occur to him for one second. Even as sour as everything had become, the thud of her strong heart as she slept was a sound he treasured. He would not make her slow and weak again when the need was not dire.

 

The next day he left a letter in their room at the Talos Plaza with her name on it.

 

_Today I'm down below. Tonight I am going. There's too many of them and they're too loud. I can't leave you forever, so tell me where you might be in a month and I'll send a letter._

 

That night he walked out of the inn with the answer folded neatly in a belt pouch. At another inn he found a sad-looking Imperial, drunk and despairing enough to agree to being fed on. He left him unconscious, quivering in ecstasy, his room and drinks paid for.

 

It was a long ride to Chorrol. On the Ring Road one night a couple of Nord bandits tried to hold him up. He did not even spare them the pain. He was not without control. He hurt them deliberately. Afterward he took their purses and laid them out side by side, ashamed at his own viciousness. Even then, the thought was uppermost in his mind that he had rather have had one dremora than the two of them.

 

The Hero of Kvatch, the lanky Argonian mage called Got-No-Home, had been to Chorrol first during the invasion. It had suffered little harm, especially compared to the half-ruined Imperial City. The day he turned eighty-four Saraven Gol rode his black horse up the street toward the plaza where the Guilds were, clad in chainmail over his gray clothes. The gelding Ves attracted more attention than did Saraven. His breed of black horses were precious and prized for their speed. There were plenty of Dunmer around Chorrol, and one small and sour-faced old fellow in light mail did not attract much attention. There may have been one or two double takes at the daedric longsword at his hip, so much finer a thing than any of his other visible equipment, but not everyone noticed that.

 

He stayed quietly at the Guild for a while. Nobody who knew him was there. Some of them had died during the Invasion. Clara, bedfellow of some years ago, had been found dead under a pile of dremora corpses in Cheydinhal. Arallon, who had joined them for that glorious afternoon, who had later found him in Anvil and taught him his one lightning spell, was still alive. He heard that the Altmer had fought at the Bruma gate and survived. Modryn Oreyn had lived and was still the Guild head.

 

He fed where he could. He always got permission, but he usually stole the memory of it afterward. It was hard to buckle down to finding a real thrall. His guildmates would think they were bunking together for other reasons, and that bothered him obscurely. As long as he fed regularly he could pass for Dunmer, for mortal. It helped that his born eye color had not changed, still red-on-red.

 

Things got a little uncomfortable when the book came out. Suddenly people were looking at him when he was practicing with the dummy, or mending his mail shirt, or currying his horse: "Is it _that_ Dunmer? Is it _that_ Saraven Gol?" No one really wanted to ask him about it. He had gathered a reputation within the Guild as one who was not easy to talk to, giving monosyllabic responses and eyeing the questioner with disfavor on almost every occasion. Eventually there seemed to be consensus that it must be some other Saraven Gol. Gol wasn't that uncommon a surname among Dunmer, right? Probably it was like Morvayn. Probably you ran into Gols in every city.

 

When nearly a month had passed since the closing of the Gates, when the long summer of the daedra was gone and it was drawing on to a cold autumn, he sat on a bench downstairs near the weapon rack and worked on cleaning his daedric sword again. This bench was far from the fire, on the wall opposite the stairs and the weapon rack. People sat around the table eating a late supper and talking, and the long shadows cast by the fire mostly hid Saraven. The daedric sword gleamed sullenly in the dim as he flicked tiny bits of straw out of the teeth on one side of the blade. There were one or two other souls sitting quietly around the edges of the room, tired or busy or less inclined for conversation.

 

The thunder of mortal hearts was as loud to him as their conversation was. He could not stop himself sullenly resenting that he would never again taste the blood of a dremora. Sometimes he still ached, randomly and without warning.

 

The Guildhouse's front door opened quietly, marked only by complaints from those on that side of the table: "Shut it, you're letting the cold in!" When it was shut they gave the newcomer a cursory glance and went back to what they were doing.

 

It was a human, a brown-haired and muscular fellow who could have belonged to any of the human nationalities but by his beaky nose was probably an Imperial. He wore steel plate armor with one green glass pauldron, almost certainly a trophy from a Gate somewhere. He went to hold out his gauntleted hands to the fire, and Saraven's critical eye found them shaking. He could pick out the man's pulse from those around him if he tried. It was thready and intermittent, sometimes pausing at odd times. Perhaps he had been wounded on the occasion when he had collected his pauldron, and healing had come too late to stop there being some sort of residual damage. You saw survivors without limbs, without hair, with burns over their limbs.

 

Or perhaps he was half-dead from dehydration. His eyes looked heavy and tired, and there was no saying how long he'd been riding. Saraven sheathed his sword, put up the pick on his belt, and went over to stand beside the Imperial, edging into his line of sight without being in reach. Saraven was a good four inches shorter.

 

"Get you a drink?" he asked.

 

"Oh, I." The man twitched, jerking up his chin, and looked around until he found the very still figure beside him. "Thanks. I've come from Cheydinhal."

 

"That's a long ride." Saraven went to the table to procure a goblet and pour water into it. The Breton whose space he invaded protested, then ignored him, engaged with the pretty Altmer on his other side. He brought the steel vessel back to the Imperial. "I'm Saraven."

 

"Thanks. Narial Vorlarius." He took it and drank slowly, completely without suspicion. Saraven watched him, frowning.

 

"Where was your gate?" he asked.

 

Narial smiled very slightly, causing a thin scar to appear from top to bottom on the right side of his mouth. Until the skin stretched it was invisible. "In the City. I used to be a guard in the Arboretum. They'd just about swarmed us under when Akatosh rose."

 

"Akatosh," Saraven said, and tapped two fingers over his dead heart. The tattoos on his face, the wings of the dragon he had bought when he was a Legionnaire so many years ago, were still with him. They had been with him through his service to Meridia and they had been with him at the closing of the Gates, when he turned again to the Divines.

 

Narial repeated the gesture of devotion, a new thing since the closing of the gates. His own heartbeat was gradually growing more regular: he had been dehydrated.

 

"Let me refill that," Saraven said.  When he came back he said, "What brings you here?"

 

Narial took another drink. "Thanks. Nothing in particular. I was discharged last week."

 

It was easy to imagine the man's aimless wandering. Saraven guessed that he had arrived alone because in fact his guard unit had been swarmed under; he was probably the only survivor.

 

"And where was your gate?" Narial was asking. Saraven looked up to find the man's eyes on his longsword. It gleamed brighter near the fire, the sullen red channels in the hilt more pronounced.

 

"I was in the City as well," Saraven said. It was true. It wasn't the complete truth.

 

The Imperial reached out a hand to the mantel, setting down his goblet on top of it. Saraven cautiously reached out a hand to his waist as he swayed.

 

"Easy, now," he said. "When's the last time you slept?"

 

"Not that long," Narial said. "Sorry. I'm all right."

 

"Maybe you aren't," Saraven said. Narial's eyes darted up toward his face, then back to the floor.

 

"Do they know?"

 

Saraven frowned at him again. Sometimes men and women who had been to war came out of it more alert than a normal person, unable to sleep, unable to let go of every tiny detail of their environment in case it might prove to be a threat. Saraven had spoken to people in mutters since he got here, face turned away, and no one had really even looked at his teeth. Narial had seen it instantly.

 

"No," Saraven said quietly. "They don't know."

 

"What do you do when someone finds out?" Narial asked. There was no fear in his voice, and he did not pull away. He sounded deeply weary. Saraven released him carefully, brief hand to his shoulder. He had not attempted to probe the man's mind. Even in his worst moments, even on the Ring Road, he had not been out to hurt someone already suffering.

 

"Mostly I just leave," he said. "They'll have forgotten about it by the time I would be back, or different people will be in the Guildhouse."

 

Narial nodded slowly. "I'm going to clean up my gear," he said. "And then I'm going to bed. Probably nobody will see anything that happens in the bed at the end of the row, if you're quick."

 

And then he turned to head up the stairs. Saraven stared after him, dumbfounded. His belated reach after the man found no subterfuge, found no attempt at the trick so simple that a fledgeling would balk at it. He found only exhaustion and despair, a desperate need for a rest that Narial felt would never come again.

 

_A perfect thrall._

 

He did not like how quickly that thought occurred to him, but it was truth.

 

Saraven lingered downstairs, looking out of one of the front windows, until he thought Narial had had time to gear down and tidy his things. Then he mounted the stairs quietly. A couple of people had gone to bed, those with work early, but they were on the end nearer the stairs. The last bunk in the row was in deep shadow under the eave of the roof. Narial lay there on his side in just the padded trousers from his armor, facing toward the stairs. His torso was heavily scarred with the marks of claws and teeth, and a star-shaped mark near his heart probably showed where a daedric arrow had gone in.

 

The Imperial's eyes were shut, but his pulse was loud enough that Saraven knew he was awake. It was almost regular now, though there was still that odd pause-stop every so often. Saraven approached slowly, scuffing one boot gently on the wooden floorboards. No hand reached for a dagger under the pillow. Narial opened his eyes just a little, then shut them.

 

"Just make it go away," he said quietly.

 

"For a little while," Saraven said. He sat on the bed behind the Imperial and rested a hand on his shoulder, testing. Flesh trembled briefly under his hand, then became still: probably Narial had no control at all over that reflex. He reached out to blanket the man's mind in relaxed calm: _no pain. No fear. You are safe._ He felt the Imperial give in immediately, with relief: he had not been free from tension and that uncontrollable nervous alertness for literally weeks. He sank readily into a trance, settling into the mattress as the muscles of his arms and torso relaxed. Saraven took up his hand and found it slack, and carried the thick wrist to his lips and found the fingers in front of him half-curled, resistless. He sank his teeth in carefully around the big vein and drank.

 

Blood would never cease to be a pleasure. It rolled over him in gentle waves, and though he craved what he could never have again, this was something. This would do. He could not think of enjoying it when it was not a moment like this one, but he did enjoy it when it happened.

 

He counted to ten as he drank. It did not do to stop paying attention even now.

 

It had been a couple of days. He could feel the tissues filling in his face and hands, growing younger and more lively. He heard Narial sigh as he grew weaker, gradually fading from consciousness as he lost blood. At nine Saraven detached his fangs and healed the little punctures in the Imperial's wrist, licking the blood from his lips.

 

The next day he wrote a letter and gave it to a passing Black Horse Courier who was bound for Anvil.

 

_To: Zudarra the Bloody c/o Lavinia (on a certain street)_

 

_Zudarra_

 

_I am in Chorrol now. When my new thrall is recovered I will be in Kvatch. Perhaps two weeks. If it pleases you to meet me there I will wait. If not, please send a letter._

 

_Saraven Gol_

 

* * *

 

 

**Zudarra**

 

It hurt then, and it hurt still.

 

Zudarra had not been surprised to find his note and yet it wounded her all the same, marked by a sharp intake of breath and a sagging of her ears as her eyes scanned the words. She intimately understood his torturous thirst. She could never stop hating herself for having been the one to inflict it upon him, despite Saraven's reassurances that he had come to want his vampirism – Sheogorath's potions had been true.

 

She was discovering that more and more each day. She luxuriated in the warm glow of the sun on her fur, in the relative calmness of her thoughts, in the slow and gentle build up of a different kind of hunger that was easy to ignore for hours at a time and even easier to satiate.

 

 _I'm going home to Anvil,_ with the exact address of her mother's house scrawled beneath was her terse reply. She was too furious for sentimentality even though his note had been kind in its promise to find her again. Cania had already given away Zudarra's room, but she didn't care at all. The Imperial City had never truly been her home to begin with.

 

Lavinia welcomed home her adopted daughter with joy and home cooked meals that Zudarra no longer had to pretend to enjoy. The city of Anvil welcomed her as a hero. Famed biographer Plitinius Mero had approached Zudarra back in the Imperial City, wishing to publish an epic retelling of her role during the Crisis. Zudarra gladly sold the rights to her story for an obscene amount of gold. By the time she returned to Anvil the first edition was out and Zudarra was a local celebrity. The book was complete schlock, painting Zudarra as a vampiric warrior capable of felling ten dremora with one swing of her axe. She had no interest in refuting that. Zudarra did not out Saraven as a vampire, knowing he would never want that; he was mentioned only in passing as Zudarra’s trusty sidekick.

 

There were parades. Banquets. Letters and gifts crowded Lavinia's already quite cluttered home and several smiths had offered Zudarra their services free of charge – it would be a point of pride for any of them that the Hero of Anvil wore armor bearing their mark. She chose a new smith who was a refugee of Valenwood – a growing community of Bosmer had sprung up around the coast outside Anvil's walls – who had experience with Khajiit morphology.

 

Zudarra threw herself into the task of reclaiming the strength she had lost. She disappeared for days at a time to escape the sometimes smothering adoration that plagued her in the city, viciously cleaning out entire nests of goblins, trolls, and other such beasts in the hills of the Gold Coast. She had spent a year in a body that did not feel much physical discomfort even with the most rigorous exercise and now a constant ache seemed to soak her entire being right down to her bones. She would not slow, would not stop no matter the pain. The ache of loneliness was far worse and she needed the distraction as badly as she needed to be strong.

 

It was not easy. She never seemed to fully adjust to the heaviness of her limbs or what felt like an absolutely plodding sprint. Sometimes Zudarra thought she might weep with fury at what she had lost, but usually ended up smashing things instead.

 

She almost missed Saraven's letter when it came. Zudarra had recently returned from a “training excursion.” Lavinia was out, probably listening to the town crier or socializing at the chapel – the Imperial Cult had experienced a resurgence in popularity, unsurprisingly. Zudarra even attended a few services but they left her feeling empty, as most things did. The table was littered with old letters and new, and she swept the pile to the floor in a fit of irritation after coming downstairs from a bath.

 

A faded scent grabbed her attention and Zudarra's ears snapped upright, whiskers and tail jittering as scabbed-over wounds were picked open anew. _Saraven._ The coldness of undeath and his own familiar Dunmer scent was very faint, but it was one Zudarra could never forget. She forced herself to remain poised as she sifted through the papers on the floor, her heart having risen to her throat to hammer furiously. She somehow expected that this was a goodbye, that being separated for so long had reminded the fledgling vampire how distasteful Saraven found her company to be.

 

_Zudarra_

 

_I am in Chorrol now. When my new thrall is recovered I will be in Kvatch. Perhaps two weeks. If it pleases you to meet me there I will wait. If not, please send a letter._

 

_Saraven Gol_

 

A new thrall. Zudarra's lip twitched but she didn't know if it had tried to become a smile or a frown. She remembered his staunchly held values, how he once abhorred the idea of dragging around a sentient being as a portable food source. A mer of quiet dignity reduced to the life of a leech. The letter crinkled in her balled fist. She sank into a chair, staring silently at the glittering junk heaped in every corner... jewelry she'd never wear, silk finery, an assortment of weapon hilts peaking out of scabbards that leaned against the shelves, her new armor hanging untouched on a stand, baskets of food that were spoiling faster than Lavinia could cook it. She closed her eyes and remembered the weight of his cold hand as it smoothed down the fur of her scalp, everything laid bare between them, her heart aching with love as a disused muscle would ache. When she opened her eyes the room had blurred.

 

She stood, knowing exactly what she was going to do two weeks from then- but now, she had to eat.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

A vampire had no need for sleep and little for rest. Saraven could choose to push consciousness away if he wished, to lie like a corpse for a defined period of time. With the need to keep an eye on Narial Vorlarius he chose to stay awake. He did not want to leave him alone. They spoke little; at first he entered the man's mind seldom and very carefully, watching for signs of tension and trauma, not wishing to cause more harm. To his guildmates it seemed that they had established a rapport almost at once, Saraven handing the Imperial food and drink, Narial passing him the polishing cloth as they sat side by side maintaining their armor. He was pleased to see the man more relaxed, but the arrhythmia in his chest never went away: it was partly the result of his scars.

 

The Imperial was always polite to anyone who spoke with him, able to converse on trivial subjects, tending to wander away from the subject of Saraven or the Imperial City or the glass pauldron on his right shoulder. Saraven spoke up more than he really wished, to tell them that Narial had been a guard during the Invasion. That excused his vagueness. Many survivors of combat during the Crisis came out not quite right when it was all over, their minds and emotions bearing wounds that would heal slowly if ever.

 

People did shake their heads at it: what in the world would an obvious war hero like Narial see in someone like the Dunmer? One or two sneered that he must really be something in the sack, although they would have known if there was anything going on in that far bunk besides sleeping. It wasn't as though the Guild had much privacy. Narial was thought of with some pity, as the probable target of seduction of an older man who was likely to treat him badly.

 

Narial slept for much of the second day of their acquaintance, desperately exhausted even before he had lost blood. Saraven listened for nightmares and flattened them out with a firm hand, driving them into silence to restore a deep and undisturbed sleep. He interfered as much as he thought safe, outwardly sitting on the end of the bed straightening the nails in his boots or reading an old book on light armor that he'd found in one of the common chests.

 

On the third day he fed the man as much as he would eat, gave him time to settle, and drew him out to the practice yard. Narial was young for his species, not out of his twenties, and the strength had not left his body. The necessity of holding up his armor had kept him from losing all of his muscle in the days after the Crisis. He responded well enough, able to wield his mace and shield with reasonable strength, but he was slow, his reflexes poor: Zudarra would have murdered him in seconds. His mind was hardly in the present moment.

 

Saraven winced as he recognized a problem that he himself had once had: Narial's mind jumped easily to the last and worst events of the Crisis, to the stench of death and blood and the sound of screaming. Sometimes he did not see what was in front of him when there was a weapon in his hand, and in those moments he also forgot that they were practicing and he actively tried to kill the mer in front of him, eyes wild and teeth bared in a feral snarl. He was still clumsy, slow. The vampire eluded him very easily. In those moments he dared not interfere directly with the man's mind for fear of breaking him. He stayed out of reach and spoke Narial's name repeatedly until his ears caught up with his mind and he slowed down.

 

Saraven could pick out that fluttering heart from all the others easily. _Mine._ And that made it easier to put the others aside. He needed a thrall. He hated that necessity – but he needed it.

 

No letter came. Saraven watched very closely for the courier.

 

"I'm going to Kvatch soon," he said to Narial that evening, as he passed the man a cooked potato wrapped in a piece of burlap. "Will you come?"

 

"Do you want me to come?" Narial asked. He ate slowly, wary of his stomach.

 

"Yes," Saraven said.

 

"Then I'll come. I've got a horse stabled out by the gate." He was calm about it. His demons did not live in Kvatch, but in the Arboretum.

 

"Good man."

 

"It doesn't bother you that I'm..." He gestured helplessly.

 

"What, walking wounded? I was the same, once," Saraven said. "I'll do what I can for it. Time will mend you at least a bit. And if the day comes when you want to go, you are free to do so. I don't keep anyone who doesn't want to stay." That was important. They had to want to stay. There had to be rules, there had to be discipline, there had to be the possibility of a NO to render the YES acceptable.

 

No one was really paying attention to their conversation, all gathered 'round the table again.

 

"I expected you to kill me," Narial said quietly.

 

"I know you did. You don't deserve to die, boy." Saraven rested a hand on his shoulder briefly, funny as that was given the difference in their height. "You served your nation well. You will serve me well also."

 

"You've been inside my head," Narial said. "You know it's all wrong." Saraven felt his deep shame at what had happened on the practice field.

 

"One day it will come right," he said firmly. "Until it does I'll do what I can for you. That's my half of the bargain. You will be kept warm and fed, you will be harmed by nothing else, and you will have whatever I can give you as often as you need it." It was a strange conversation. He felt no revulsion from Narial at the fact that he was talking of feeding an undead creature the blood from his veins. The man was so far gone that he did not feel he deserved anything at all. He could not see it as a debasement.

 

_He will. Until then I will feel it for him, and lessen it as much as I can._

 

"We're going to meet an old -"

 

_Enemy. Sister-in-arms. Daughter. Stupid beautiful stubborn child._

 

\- "Friend of mine. She's a Khajiit. She's not very subtle but she's a great warrior. We were together during the Crisis and we split up afterward, and I've asked her to meet me in Kvatch."

 

He had until then to think of a reason besides _I wanted to see you_. Possibly he could come up with some sort of job out that way that required two people, one of whom was not a thrall injured in body and spirit.

 

That night he sat by Narial to calm him, fed only a little, to the count of five. This time he fed his own pleasure back to the Imperial to see how he bore it. He would realize at some point what feeding meant to a vampire, and if he could not stand that thought he would have to be let go. Saraven felt his hand flex as he breathed, wounded heart jumping, but it did no harm to his mind.

 

"This is what it is to you?" he asked, voice slow and thick, when it was over and he was sinking toward sleep again. Saraven sat beside him on the bed, hand resting on the coverlet near his shoulder. He felt the rise of a nightmare image in Narial's mind, a clannfear's open mouth, and wiped it out with a firm hand.

 

"Yes," Saraven said. "To any like me. It is a horror and a degradation that I ask it of you, but while I have you I spare all the world."

 

"It's fine," Narial mumbled into the pillow. "I don't... mind..." He was far from being able to care.

 

The next day Saraven went to talk to Modryn Oreyn. He found the other Dunmer out front, talking to a burly Imperial about cave rats. Modryn was a sturdy middle-sized Dunmer of close to Saraven's actual age, his face lined and his eyes permanently heavy. He turned to eye Saraven with one dark eyebrow raised. Unlike Saraven, his hair hadn't gone white yet. When the vampire was fed and younger-looking, as he was now, it was a bit incongruous.

 

"Yes?"

 

"Sir," Saraven said. Narial loomed behind his shoulder, brown eyes vague. "I was wondering if you'd any work out Kvatch way."

 

"You'll have to ask at the Kvatch guild," Modryn said. "We don't handle contracts for that region any longer."

 

"Yes, Sir." Saraven saluted, fist to his chest; Oreyn lifted his chin in grudging response. He'd have to leave earlier so he could ask around at the Guildhouse, then. As he turned to go back inside Saraven heard Modryn speaking to Narial.

 

"Are you all right? Kurz told me you were at the Imperial City on the day Akatosh rose."

 

"Yes, Sir," Narial said. "I'm not all right, but I'm getting better."

 

"You know that all the Guild is your friend now, Son." Saraven paused with his hand on the lintel, feeling eyes on his back. You don't have to latch on to some weird probable buggerer that nobody likes.

 

"Thank you, Sir. I'd better catch up to Saraven." His tone was polite, cheerful, uninformative.

 

"All right. You come to me if you need anything, Vorlarius."

 

"Yessir." There was a clank as he performed the Guild salute, fist to his chest, and turned to follow Saraven with measured steps.

 

It would be almost a week's ride to Kvatch. He bought up provisions for Narial and went to check on his horse, which proved to be a big brown mare called Cassy. She snorted unhappily at Saraven's scent – death, blood – but accepted a carrot from him when he approached with Narial beside him. She had been a warrior's horse. She wasn't going to bolt at the stink of a vampire. Ves was completely used to it and greeted him with a snorfle of his hair when he came to curry the big black.

 

They rode out on a cool, misty morning, saddlebags laden with food and water. Cassy rode up beside and slightly behind Ves willingly enough, huffing from her nostrils. No one really noticed them go. The gate guards glanced them over idly, busy watching the road.

 

The grass to either side of the road had not yet begun to go brown. In this mild climate it might never. The flax had ceased to blossom, but the mushrooms were eternal, silver caps gleaming. The road was dirt from about a quarter-mile outside town, passing the great scar in the earth where the gate to Oblivion had been. Nothing grew there, though the broken spires had been taken down.

 

The shade of the trees was deep and dark around the road. Saraven heard other hearts beating, bigger and smaller than Narial's (he learned to tune out the horses almost at once). He glimpsed a cougar once, lying back in the brush, only the gleam of its eyes giving away its position. Saraven showed it his sharp teeth. It vanished, and he heard the sound of its pulse retreating. The hearts of animals did not awaken his thirst in the same way. It was a relief to be away from town.

 

Narial made no complaint at sleeping on his bedroll on the ground. He had probably done so, albeit badly, all the way from the Imperial City to Chorrol. And with Saraven there he slept very deeply. Saraven fed lightly and made sure that the Imperial ate and drank, an area in which he needed constant prompting. He seemed to fill out even as they traveled, the bags under his eyes shrinking. By the time the forest opened out into rolling golden hills, wild wheat browning as the year wore on, Narial looked almost healthy. Until you looked at his eyes.

 

They rode slowly up the spiral road to the city, Saraven looking around himself as he thought. The last time he had ridden up this road he had been alive, mortal, struggling with his broken mind and his hatred of the thing that he now was. He and Zudarra had met first as foes, fighting in the dust of the road. They had met again as prisoners of the dremora, forced by necessity to fight their way out together. He felt that he ought to feel some quickening of his pulse, some jolt of adrenaline at those memories, but that capacity had left his body forever. He had only cold thought, clear memory now. He was not sure whether to be glad or sorry.

 

They stabled their horses at the new ostler's. The city was being rebuilt. There were no more bodies in the streets, no more stench of smoke and rot. There was a fresh scent of baking bread and occasionally horse manure. He was certain that he could still catch the very faintest scent of daedric blood, old and rotten, and suddenly he ached again. Saraven turned his face aside into his hood, baring his teeth. After a moment discipline reasserted itself, and he forced his head up as they moved forward. He was aware of Narial watching him.

 

A guard directed him to the Guild, brusque at first, more respectful as he recognized the glass pauldron and the daedric blade. Hearts beat around him, but now he had Narial as a defense against that distraction: _Mine. I know where my next drink comes from. I have control._

 

At the Guild they walked straight in. The new building had an actual lobby intervening between the outer door and the main stone-floored practice area. When they arrived a tiny blond Bosmer woman in leather armor was sitting there, binding an arrowhead to a shaft with deft fingers. She glanced up.

 

"Can I help you?" Her eyes flickered over them both and came to rest on the glass pauldron. She sat up straight, setting her work aside, and saluted. Both men returned the gesture.

 

"We're members," Saraven said. "Saraven Gol, Swordsman, and Narial Vorlarius..."

 

"Journeyman," Narial said, giving his Guild rank.

 

"We're here looking for work."

 

"Then you want to talk to Delrian Thomas, the new Guild head. He's in the practice room training someone now, I think," she said. "Wait... the Saraven Gol from the book?"

 

"No, that's some other one," Saraven said, lying without a second thought. "Thanks."

 

"What book?" he heard Narial asking behind him.

 

"You haven't read _Tales of Zudarra The Bloody_ yet? Here, have mine! It's incredible!"

 

_Damn it._

 

There was a pale-haired Breton, tall and lean, dancing around the chain dummy in just a set of armor padding with a rapier in his hand. An Altmer with darker hair braided back stalked around the other side, face intent, her own rapier held at the guard. Saraven moved to stand to one side, folded his hands in front of him, and waited, pushing back his hood to expose his bristle of white hair. His presence did not appear to break the concentration of either party, but after a few swift ripostes had been exchanged the Breton said,

 

"Halt." He straightened and saluted, rapier held in front of his face. "Good. I think that's enough for now, Veleren." The Altmer saluted in return and headed for the door at the back of the room. The Breton turned pale blue eyes on Saraven. "Yes?"

 

He was older than Saraven had realized, probably in his forties.

 

"Master Thomas," Saraven said. "I was told I should talk to you about work. My rank is Swordsman."

 

"There's always work at that rank," said Delrian Thomas. "I have a probable thief making the rounds of the inns stealing silver cups. I have another old iron mine outside town that's infested with goblins. I have a dirty old cave that's probably full of vampires or some other nasty – independent contractors have gone down twice this week and not come up. Our contract is with the City because they've lost a couple of couriers out that way."

 

"Where's the third one?" Saraven asked. "The cave?"

 

"To the West, not far from an Ayleid ruin. In fact, there may be Ayleid structures in the lower levels. No one I've asked seems to know, or no one who knew survived the Crisis. Do you carry a map?"

 

Saraven unfolded the worn piece of parchment from his belt and let Delrian mark the location on it.

 

"I do not advise that you go alone," Delrian said. "The mercenaries who beat us there were not weak men."

 

"I don't plan to," Saraven said. "I'm waiting on an old acquaintance I hope will meet me here. She's not a member, but she's an army on two legs."

 

"Well, give her description to the front desk. Non-members aren't normally admitted to the Guild Hall."

 

"Yes, Sir," Saraven said, and went to retrieve Narial and explain the situation to the Bosmer. She made a note on a pad on the desk. Narial followed him half-blindly, nose bemusedly buried in the book in his hand as he headed for the living quarters.


	3. Chapter 3

Thirteen days after she had received Saraven’s letter, a black drafter adorned in gleaming steel plate clopped through the shanty town that lined the main road to Kvatch. It had been built up quite a bit; several wooden frames were up in various stages of completion. Wagons bearing timber and stone for construction rumbled past. She heard murmurs of awe as citizens looked up from their work and pointed. Zudarra had not dressed in armor for her trip, and people wondered if the tabby Cathay was indeed  _ the  _ Zudarra the Bloody. She held her chin high and did not acknowledge their gazes.  Normally she'd bask in the attention, but now she was thinking of blood-slicked streets, of the soft rain that had fallen that first night in a pathetic attempt to wash it all way. She was dressed in her old clothes, a faded lavender tunic and dark navy pants, and although she was still more heavily muscled than the average man, Zudarra's shoulders did not stretch the tunic out as she would have six months ago. An ebon war axe veined with gold filigree hung sheathed at her hip from a thick leather belt.

 

The ostler at the stables gave her directions to the Fighter's Guild and one of the inns that had already reopened; Zudarra tipped generously and asked him to bring her armor and luggage to the later while she set out on foot for the former.

 

Kvatch seemed a totally different place in the light, yet scars on the cobble and ruined buildings echoed the memory of that terrible day. The toppled upper half of the cathedral had been dismantled and removed, but the rest had not yet been repaired. She turned down a side street that would lead to the Fighter's Guild, the same she would have taken to visit the Arena. She knew it had not been rebuilt and was probably low on the list of priorities. Without an armored horse to draw attention, only a few people seemed to look twice at her.

 

She found the stone building with its familiar red banners easily enough. A green-scaled, unarmored Argonian was just inside the small lobby, leaning back with his clawed feet on a desk while he polished a shortsword with a cloth. He removed his feet and sat forward as the door clicked shut, looking up with only mild interest at the Khajiit.

 

“ A new recruit?” he asked.

 

“ No,” Zudarra said, and again she was aware of her heart thudding a little too fast for comfort – it had become a bit of an annoyance, as well as the unwelcome emotions that seemed to swell up far too easily now. “I'm looking for a Dunmer named Saraven Gol. Do you know if he's around?”

 

The Argonian drummed his claws on the desktop, raising and lowering the spine at the back of his skull.

 

"Saraven Gol, Saraven Gol... Why does that sound so familiar? AH. Berrie left a note." He scrabbed among the disorganized papers until he found the yellow scrap. "Saraven Gol, rank Swordsman, is waiting for a Khajiit and will be in the living quarters. I'll just go and get him."

 

He got up and slouched back through the doorway to the practice room, through the second doorway and up the stairs. He stuck his head into the living quarters, looking around. There was a big Imperial in steel armor with one glass pauldron and a Dunmer in chainmail and a gray hood sitting at a table, the Imperial eating an apple.

 

"Either of you Saraven Gol, rank Swordsman?" he asked.

 

"I am," Saraven said.

 

"There's a Khajiit here to see you."

 

"Gray, about yea tall?" Saraven asked, raising his hand above his head as he got up.

 

"Yes. I would hurry. She does not look a patient sort." The Argonian vanished, and Saraven thumped Narial on the shoulder and followed him. The Imperial tossed aside the apple core and went after. They all trooped back down to the foyer, and there she was. Saraven was aware once again that the blood sloshing in his dead veins would not quicken for any emotion, but seeing her again was still a punch in the gut.

 

Zudarra had been examining the floor tiles, the tip of her tail twitching nervously, but she lifted her head at the sound of footsteps approaching. An unexpected grin cracked her muzzle when that old gray mug (although he didn't look so old anymore) came into view and she stepped forward. Her arms twitched briefly as if she were going to raise them, but then her fists clenched and remained at her sides. 

 

"When did you stop eating?" were the first words out of his mouth. Her smile dissolved into a scowl, one ear tilting back. Zudarra’s eyes quickly flicked from the Imperial behind him and back to Saraven. The man hadn't said one word to her yet and suddenly, she hated him.

 

“ When did you lose fifty years?” she shot back, regretting it as it came out. Other people didn't necessarily realize what her strength had meant to her, and even so, she ought to be able to take a joke from an old friend.

 

_ You know when.  _ His mouth was open to say it, but then he looked at her face more closely: ear back, teeth just showing at the back edges, fists clenched. He had been right, she'd lost some weight, muzzle looking a little hollow. Her old clothes were looser than when he had last seen them. And he knew that he was looking better than he had when he left her. He had been feeding regularly for days.

 

She was looking past him. And not at the Argonian, who seemed to have made himself scarce.

 

Saraven shut his mouth, then sighed through his nose.

 

"Zudarra," he said. "this is Narial Vorlarius. He was there on that day, in the Arboretum. Narial, Zudarra the Bloody, whose name you have heard."

 

"You are that same Saraven Gol," he said.

 

"I am that same," he acknowledged quietly.

 

Narial bowed deeply toward the Khajiit, fist over his heart – Saraven could hear it juddering along in an uneven counterpoint to the thunder of Zudarra's. He had missed that sound.

 

“ Hello,” Zudarra said in an approximation of politeness, crossing her arms over her chest because she didn't know what else to do with them and suddenly felt awkward. She wished that she and Saraven could have been alone, but that would have entailed a different sort of awkwardness anyway. She shot a cocky smirk at Narial.

 

“ He never told you he's a war hero? Tsk tsk, Saraven. Always so humble. Anyway, that book is horse shit. Half of that never happened.” She turned to Saraven. “You, uh, you look well.”

 

He did look well. Back in the Imperial City, when he hadn't been feeding, sometimes it frightened Zudarra how corpselike he appeared. A part of her was truly happy that he seemed to be okay.

 

"Thank you. Will you join us at the Gray Hart? I have something to discuss." Apparently she also would not eat without him watching her every second. So be it, he would manually shove food down both of them if necessary.

 

She didn't like Narial. He was mildly surprised. She had taken to Brithe well enough, had carried the poor woman in her own arms at least once.

 

Narial had straightened up and was watching them both alternately.

 

“ Yeah, sure,” she shrugged and turned back towards the door. “I literally just rode in and I could eat an ox.” She opened her mouth to ask if  _ he _ was coming, realized that would be rude, so instead she banged out the front door. She paused just long enough with her hand on the door for the next one out to take it from her.

 

Saraven followed her, caught the door in one hand, and in turn held it for Narial. The Gray Hart was down the street from the Guild and was a favorite with the better-heeled of its members. You could find food and drink at the Guildhall if you weren't picky; but if you wanted the best bread, the most succulent venison stew, and a fat fresh sweetroll as big as your fist, you went to the Gray Hart. The sign over the door bore the carved image of a deer painted gray, probably with lead.

 

The double doors opened into a room that breathed warmth and yeast and, to a Khajiit's more sensitive nose, the mingled presence of many bodies past and present, the sour tang of hops, the sweeter hint of mead and wine. It was not yet very busy early in the evening, just a couple of the hard drinkers at back tables. A busty Nord woman and a sturdy man of the same race, his blond beard hanging braided almost to his navel, bantered back and forth as they moved about behind the long bar on the left. The room was dimly lit by candles, its window glass yellow and nearly opaque.

 

"Welcome, welcome!" called the barman from the counter, raising a hand in greeting. "What can we get for you tonight?"

 

“ Gimme a quail, a meat pie, and fried beets if you have that. And cider. And some type of fruit muffin, I don't care what kind. Wait, apricot,” Zudarra rattled off as she pulled out a chair in the corner, as far away from the few other patrons as possible. She flopped heavily down and sat sideways with one arm draped over the side of the chair.  

 

It still rankled her that Saraven had accused her of not eating.  She ate a lot, damn it, probably more than she needed to –  the flavors still hadn't grown old to her, after an entire year of not eating any solid food at all – except for when she was too busy training. Building muscle as a mortal was so much harder than she remembered.

 

Narial didn't appear about to order for himself, so Saraven asked for a stew and greens for him and a tankard of small beer.

 

The barman agreed to all of that, and his wife vanished into the back. Delicious smells wafted outward to those able to appreciate them. Saraven could identify individual components – meat, bread, fruit – but they had no more personal meaning to him than the color of the sky.

 

Narial sat with one hand on the table, leaning back in his chair. His chin tended to sink forward if he wasn't paying attention, as though his head were heavy.  Zudarra looked him over briefly before turning her eyes to the Dunmer.

 

“So what is it you wanted to talk about, Saraven?”

 

"There's a Guild job on offer up here," he said. "Pays well. There's a cave nearby with maybe an Ayleid ruin under it and a couple of mercenaries have gone in to clear the place out and not come back. I know it's beneath you, now that you're famous, but I'm a little low on coin. I thought you might do me the favor."

 

She stared at Saraven for a long moment, eyes narrowing just slightly. She curled her tail around the leg of her chair to keep it from twitching. Zudarra had never been a sociable person. She was vaguely aware of the unspoken rules of conversation, that sometimes a person would say self-deprecating things to spare the other some sort of discomfort. Saraven didn't need her help to clear out a cave... he'd taken on entire nests of vampires by himself back before he'd become one himself.

 

“ Well,” she began, carefully. “The Kvatch arena isn't going to be rebuilt for a while, and the gold I got in that book deal will only go so far. So yeah, I wouldn't mind a little extra work.”  He smiled very slightly, just a tiny flash of teeth in the dim light. _ She knows exactly why I asked. _

 

She hated this. Why couldn't she just say “I want to be with you”? Why couldn't he? Zudarra absently scratched at the tabletop with one claw, looking away from him.

 

“ How are you doing, Saraven?” she asked gently. It was obvious that she meant it as more than some sort of lazy icebreaker. He wondered how much of an answer she wanted. Probably the actual one. She couldn't have changed that much in only a couple of months.

 

"Kvatch is more difficult than I expected," he said. "Everything still smells of daedra, just a little, and always at the wrong time. It makes me..." He sought the word, turning a hand palm-up helplessly. "Ache. The way a drunk aches after a month of water." He glanced at the Imperial, who was now listening with a slight frown. This was more overt discussion of the vampiric state than he had ever had with Narial.

 

"Narial is safe from me, but only because I am able to choose to stop. Nothing ever ends the thirst."

 

Zudarra listened, finding his eyes again, but she looked down at her hand at the end.

 

“ I know,” she said quietly, to Saraven’s astonishment.  _ She did know?  _ Had mortal blood begun to pall for her at the end, and only the cure had spared her from his current – torment was a strong word. Inconvenience seemed petty. 

 

Zudarra thought about apologizing, but they'd been over this a hundred times and a million sorries wouldn't fix it. Even back then she'd had a vague idea that letting a new vampire drink immortal blood the very first time was probably going to cause problems down the road, if only because she knew how crazy it had begun to make her. Self loathing rolled over her in waves.

 

She glanced up, saw Narial's frown. Considering the Dunmer hadn't told him the full truth of his identity, she guessed that he'd told him little else. She grinned bitterly at him, as disgusted by his passive nature as she had been by Vandalion and Galmir. This man was broken, as they had been.

 

“ Did Saraven ever tell you the name of the vampire who sired him? Do you know anything at all about the mer you feed?”

 

She was angry, Saraven realized. That wasn't new – he had often known her angry – but now he was beginning to grasp the reason.

 

He could have laughed. That probably would not help the situation.

 

Now the Imperial lifted his head. "No," he said. "He doesn't like to talk about it. I know what the book says, but like you said, not much of that is true." He tapped a gauntleted fingertip on the table, speaking softly. He did not look at either of them, but at the tabletop, eyes distant. "I know the scars on his wrist are too big for human-sized teeth. I used to see things like that all the time. Sometimes I still do. I know you breathe, and he doesn't. So that's something I don't understand, Ma'am."

 

“ I did it to him,” she proclaimed, almost haughtily, watching his face for any reaction. “Without consent. I was cured later – that one's a long story.” She wasn't exactly sure why, but Zudarra wanted this man to hate her, to fear her. Perhaps it was because she was tired of the hero worship she'd been receiving from everyone else. Perhaps it was to justify her irrational dislike of him.

 

Saraven stared at her in something like horror, crimson eyes wide. This was beyond jealous and into cruel. Did she not realize what she was saying?

 

The Nord and her husband interrupted briefly, both of their arms laden with plates that they plunked down with fast efficiency, although Narial's food and drink were set down in front of Saraven. Saraven was busy for a few seconds passing plates over to Narial, giving him time to get control of his face. The Imperial seemed to have no reaction to her words, looking from her to Saraven and back with his brow slightly furrowed before the innkeepers interrupted everything.

 

“ The bird'll be out in just a few more minutes,” the woman said. She set down three sets of utensils rolled in linen napkins.

 

“ Thanks,” Zudarra said, and immediately opened the pie with her fork. She allowed herself to savor the smell of the escaping steam for just a moment before diving in.

 

“ So you were in the Imperial City? Legion, I guess?” Zudarra asked around a mouth full of pork, in a tone which said she didn't really care too much.

 

"Yes," Narial said. "I was a day guard in the Arboretum." His voice was starting to show strain, the pitch less even.

 

Saraven listened to each of them and found her more agitated than he had expected, and Narial gradually becoming more so, damaged heart flapping and pausing in his chest.

 

Zudarra grunted in response. It was obvious he didn't want to talk about that particular topic, and she didn't want to watch a weak-willed human have a breakdown. Plus, Saraven was giving her a look. Zudarra felt as though she were caught on a runaway horse heading straight for a cliff: knowing disaster lay ahead, unable to stop herself.

 

“ Well, at least you've got Saraven now. I'm sure he's helping you forget all about it,” she said, waving her fork. She took a bite of her muffin with the other hand. The apricots inside were so sweet and squishy... But it didn't bring her pleasure, not really. Sure, it tasted good. But it was such an empty pleasure, with Saraven watching her, no doubt feeling that intense hunger even now. It never went away, even after she had fed for the day. Her stomach hurt just remembering that insatiable thirst.

 

Zudarra was always hollow, no matter what she tried to fill herself with. Not just food, but anything. Her face fell a little bit and she slowed in her chewing. She didn't really want any of it anymore.

 

Narial looked at Saraven slowly, brows knit. He no longer really heard her words, only the tone of her voice. Saraven felt him flailing about for an anchor, trying to tamp down the shaking in his hands:

 

_ Will there be blood here? _

 

_ No. Calm. Something is wrong, but it is not your fault. There will be no violence.  _ Saraven was quite still for a moment, watching the Khajiit with vague eyes as he did what he could to calm Narial from the inside. Then he said,

 

"Stop it. He hasn't done anything to you. What's wrong with you? Did something happen while I was away?" He reached a cold hand to Zudarra's arm, fighting to keep his grip from bruising. "Has someone hurt you?"

 

Zudarra looked down at the dark hand on the naked fur of her arm for a split second before irritation distorted her features and she yanked her arm away from his grasp.

 

“ Don't touch me like that,” she snapped. “What the hells are you talking about, Saraven? I'm not doing anything to your little pet. I asked if he was in the Legion and then I said you must be helping him. I won't talk to him if you're feeling territorial.”

 

_ Has someone hurt me? _ She would have laughed at the absurdity of such a question if he hadn't pissed her off.

 

He sat back, inhaling so that he might exhale through his nostrils again. It was amazing hard to give up that gesture even though he no longer needed to breathe.

 

"You can talk to him. You don't have to be cruel," he said. "You know he's not well or he wouldn't have agreed to any of it."

 

“ _ I'm _ being cruel?” Zudarra asked with faked incredulity and rage, voice rising in pitch and volume. She shoved herself back against her chair as well, splaying a hand across her chest. “That's a funny accusation coming from the mer who turned him into a walking vegetable! I'd be surprised if he's got any feelings left to injure!”

 

At his left hand Narial trembled, gloved fingers clicking against the tabletop. He heard no words. He heard only a voice raised in anger.

 

It was at that moment that Saraven decided very coldly and deliberately to do something inexcusable.

 

He reached out to both minds at once, Narial on his one hand, Zudarra on the other, and bridged between them, funneling thoughts across his own mind like lightning between the posts of a tall house. On Narial's end he blocked a lot of it, not wishing to overwhelm the man: but to Zudarra he showed everything that Narial thought and felt. He withdrew his intervention for that long, that she might see the parade of horrific images that plagued the Imperial at strange moments, feel exactly what he felt:

 

_ Fear. Confusion. Pain, pain from nowhere, stabbing in behind his eyes without warning, twinging through his healed limbs, there and gone from his chest. _

 

_ His heart twitching and fluttering, traitor within his own armor, no longer even a familiar voice in his own ears. _

 

_ Exhaustion. Voices speaking to him with pity, distant in their own way: not-my-brother, not-my-son, how sad. _

 

_ The jaws of clannfear and the screams of dying men and the blood, so much blood. Blood in torrents. He was desperate for any relief, any silence at all. _

 

Zudarra jolted upright in her chair, fist tightening around the fork she still held as the torrent of memory flooded her senses. Her jaw slackened and her gaze was suddenly very far away. Had she been a vampire still she could have easily rejected the fledgling's intrusions, but she was not, and she was powerless against it the way her own thralls had been powerless against her.

 

_ Stop it stop it stop it stop it!  _ her inner voice screamed at him, rising in intensity until he let off, letting the connection go on that side. On Narial's side he soothed and buffered, pushing away the things he had let in. The Imperial sat with his head in his hands, elbows resting on the table. Zudarra’s heart hammered furiously, as if those had been her own terrible emotions and her body reacted accordingly. She quaked in her seat as the reality of the tavern came back to her, first in terror, and a second later in fury. She sprang up, knocking over her chair. He lips curled back over her short fangs and she glared down at the Dunmer, hazel eyes livid and chest heaving. Saraven looked up at Zudarra from under his hood, unbreathing, unblinking. She threw the fork down at the table as hard as she could and it bounced onto the floor. He did not flinch at the noise. Narial did. Some drunks on the other side of the room looked up at her. 

 

“ Fuck you, Saraven,” she snarled and stomped toward the exit, tail lashing furiously behind her, extended footclaws scraping the floor. She shoved a chair out of her way as she went. She slammed the door on the way out, rattling the lintel and leaving Saraven to pay for the entirety of the meal. She turned sharply on the street toward her inn, The Knight's Rest, by the main gate. A few pedestrians quickly stepped out of the way of the glowering ball of rage.


	4. Chapter 4

And then she was gone, claws out, tail lashing. The barman and his wife were staring at them.

 

"Sorry," Saraven said. He got up to go and pay them for the meal. He wasn't as gold-poor as all that. The bandits he had encountered on his way to Chorrol had been doing well for themselves, and he had few expenses.

 

"Did I cause that?" Narial asked as Saraven guided him out, hand under his elbow. At a cursory glance he might be helping a drunk friend – his own head bowed, Narial's face flushed, eyes half-blind.

 

"No. I don't understand why she's taken a dislike to you. There was another before you who got better and moved on, and Zudarra never treated her that way." Suddenly he felt weary, and he knew that it could not be of the body. His body had only one need now. "I wanted her to see what you feel."

 

Narial stopped in his tracks, halfway up the road back to the Guildhouse. Saraven perforce stopped with him.

 

"Don't do that again," he said quietly. For the first time in their acquaintance he sought Saraven's eyes directly. "I don't want to feel this myself. I won't have you putting it on other people."

 

"She treated you badly," Saraven said.

 

"No one deserves this," Narial said hoarsely. One fist clenched at his side, and Saraven felt his pulse rising again.

 

"You're right," Saraven said slowly, turning to look back over his shoulder. He didn't know where she was staying, but he thought he knew where she had gone. "You don't either, you know. Try and hang onto that."

 

"You have to go find her."

 

"And tell her I'm sorry?"

 

"And tell her  _ I _ am sorry."

 

"All right, all right. Sh, now."  _ Calm _ . He felt the Imperial's ragged breathing gradually ease as they drew nearer the Guildhouse. "I'm going to leave you at the door. You'll be safe in the Guild until I can come back."

 

Narial nodded. Saraven ushered him into the foyer and then went back out again to retrace his steps up the street. He did not have a Khajiit's sense of smell – but he did have a vampire's. He had been near Zudarra and Zudarra's blood and Zudarra's scent often and for a long time. He could not track her through a forest after a week, but over cobbles after a couple of minutes was not so very unreasonable.

 

She wasn't fully adjusted to being mortal, was that it? No, she'd been eating without any trouble. Saraven shook his head as he walked. Maybe he shouldn't have asked to see her again. He wasn't going to make Narial's life any worse by his involvement. Maybe he was just bad for Zudarra. The Gates were closed, there were no more dremora walking in Nirn except those enslaved by mages, and there was no more need of him.

 

He tried to imagine the next fifty years without Zudarra. It looked like a very long, dull, gray fifty years. Because thralls needed taking care of, they needed healing, but they would leave. They would always leave. And that was right and good.

 

_ There is always work. _

 

Delrian had said that and it was true.

 

_ Perhaps if I chose a thrall from one of the elven races they would stay longer. _

 

He could not wish on someone that they heal more slowly from the sort of wounds that rendered them good choices for thralldom.

 

More than one dremora had died around the steps of the inn he now approached. Saraven bared his teeth, then turned his head belatedly to hide his mouth.

 

_ Damn it. _

 

_ No. You wanted this. What is the alternative, a breaking mind in a dying body? No one would go back to that. _

 

_ There IS always work. _

 

But first there was this. He opened the door of the building in front of him.

 

* * *

 

 

After finding her room on the upper level of the inn Zudarra slammed around for a bit. She slammed the door shut behind her, then opened one of the drawers in the empty dresser just so she could slam it as well. Then she kicked the leg of the bedside table and sank onto the bed, her footpad throbbing. Her hands fisted the fur of her head and she rocked forward, doubling over.

 

_ Why did I have to treat them that way? Why did Saraven have to over-react? This is it, I'll never see him again! _ The swell of grief overwhelmed her and Zudarra fell down on her side on the plush covers with her hands over her eyes, inhaling the scent of freshly laundered cloth and the old trace of hundreds of travelers. The softness of the bed was utterly incongruous with her state of mind and she hated it. She hated everything! She wanted to destroy every last thing she could get her hands on – smash the windows, bust the furniture, set it all on fire.

 

A weak little sob escaped her lips, and this enraged her even further. She turned her face against the coverlet, one hand moving beside her head to clench the fabric.

 

_ Saraven, I'm so sorry. _ She was sorry for Vandalion, for Galmir, for Narial, for her first victims, for every person she had ever wronged. She was sorry for herself and the worthless, empty life she had to return to. But most of all she was sorry for anything and everything she'd ever inflicted upon the Dunmer. Her ribs heaved as she cried against the bed, noiseless but for gasping sounds when she inhaled. Her tail curled up tightly against her thigh, her chipped ears quivered low to her skull. She didn't know why she had pushed him.

 

Oh, she knew. Zudarra was a shitty, selfish asshole. She'd known Saraven for  _ two weeks _ of his eighty-odd year life and thought that somehow meant she was entitled to him. That's all there was to know.

 

Slowly she sat up, wiped moisture from her face with both hands. Crying made her nose run, so she blew the snot out on a doily sitting on the bedside table and threw it on the floor afterward. Her two large travel packs were sitting there by the door, waiting to be unpacked. She blinked her eyes, wiped them again, and stood up to take her bags, one shouldered over each arm. 

 

She was halfway down the staircase, which faced the front door of the inn, when that very door swung open to reveal a hooded Dunmer. She froze in mid-step. Her eyes had a glassy look, and the fur under them was still damp.

 

"Zudarra," he said. "I'm sorry."

 

One ear twitched back and the muscles of her face pulled tight in puzzlement; why was  _ Saraven _ apologizing to  _ her? _ She lowered her paw to the step and let her weight spread upon it, unsure of what to do. Zudarra knew that the rules of conversation dictated that it was now her turn to apologize, and perhaps try to ease back into his good graces in a polite, noncommittal way. (“So did you still need help with that cave?” which implied they would part again when the job was done.)

 

All of her anger had evaporated the moment she laid eyes on him, but Zudarra was still frustrated with herself, with all of the mental restraints that bogged her down. She realized suddenly that things would never change between them unless  _ she _ changed.

 

There was a very long pause while her tongue worked inside her mouth and she breathed heavily through her nose. The muted thumps and creaks of other people moving inside the building seemed surreal.

 

“ I want to be with you,” she finally said, very firmly and deliberately, her eyes flicking back and forth between the wall and his face. “I don't want you to leave me alone ever again.” As she said it she knew what a horrible thing she was asking – she had insulted him, had spoken cruelly to his thrall and had the audacity to stand there in front of him and say such a thing! It was obscene. But it was true and she was tired of pretending it wasn't.

 

Saraven looked up at her, one hand slowly rising to push back his hood. He was aware of warmth spreading through his chest. And that was strange. The sun, the fire, fresh blood might warm his flesh briefly; but there was nothing inside him that could produce heat.

 

_ Oh, Zudarra. _

 

Of course she wouldn't just let something lie between them. That was impossible.

 

He forgot to control his speed and was there beside her in an instant on the stairs.

 

"While any force animates me, I will not leave you alone," he said. "One drop of blood. One bone held to another. If you don't see me, it's because I'm on my way."

 

Zudarra blinked and he was there. It took her a moment to comprehend what he had said and then heat rose to her cheeks. He could not see that through her fur, but he would be able to hear the racing patter of her heart. Her eyes danced around wildly at anything but his face, her muzzle tilted away from him. Her eyes stung; emotions she vaguely understood were filling her chest again, exerting so much pressure Zudarra thought she could burst.

 

_ But you did leave me alone _ she thought, like a petulant child. She was wise enough not to speak it aloud. She knew very well that he had been dealing with something dark at the time, and probably still was.

 

“ I'm sorry for the way I was acting,” she said, finally looking down at his eyes. Her hands twitched as if she were about to reach out, but she tightened them around the straps of her bags instead.

 

"And I'm sorry that I did that to you, and I'm sorry that I left. It won't happen again." He touched her arm carefully, very gently, as he looked up at her. Heartbeats like raindrops, one after the other: it was real emotion. Not that it took a vampire's senses to tell. Zudarra was not likely ever to be a successful dissembler. He had always thought it was one of her better qualities.

 

"Whatever happens, we'll get through it. And you don't need to worry about Narial. There will be many thralls as the years pass. There can only be one Zudarra."

 

She shifted one palm away from the strap to lay it over the hand on her arm and smiled falteringly down at him. His flesh was cool to the touch but it was still her Saraven no matter his body. Some muscle in her cheek was twitching. She felt incredibly stupid, embarrassed, but warmed. The Dunmer somehow knew her own mind better than she knew herself, but then, he was more accustomed to these pesky emotions than she was.

 

“ That's the sappiest tripe that's ever come out of your mouth, old man,” she said, but her smile and her tone of voice were gentle and genuinely kind. She released his hand and shifted uncomfortably, jostling her bags around. “Did you have business to finish up here in town? We could meet at the gate after dawn tomorrow if not.” She had to change the subject. The emotions were overwhelming and she would not cry in front of him. Zudarra suddenly felt exhausted.

 

"I know, girl, I know. Give me your damn bag. You shouldn't be walking around without a sword arm free." He reached up to take one of the bags, shuffling the hood back over his head, and started back up the s tairs with it.  A part of her protested at being helped but Zudarra let him take a bag without any fuss, then paused momentarily before falling in behind him.  "And dawn is fine. I left Narial at the Guildhouse. He was very insistent that I find you and apologize."  She'd feel better after a rest, and if they were going to go cave-diving after who-knew-what he needed her at her strongest.

 

Narial wanting to apologize made even less sense to Zudarra, but she sighed, brushed it away and creaked up the stairs after him. She couldn't bear any more guilt tonight; that one would have to wait.

 

"Did you bring armor with you?"

 

“ What else do you think I'd be carrying in two very large bags?” Zudarra asked dryly. “It's not my sewing kit.” In the upper hall she shouldered open the door that she'd left ajar, not expecting to be back, and went in first, plopping the bag down by the bed. She turned back to Saraven as he entered and he set his bag down easily beside the other. There were definite advantages to the vampiric state, and he must remind himself of that every time he caught himself railing at the thirst. He was much stronger undead than he had ever been alive.

 

“ You won't believe the things people have been sending me. Weapons of all sorts,” she touched the axe on her hip to demonstrate. She had her pick of axes, had taken this one along on a whim. “New armor, lots of little trinkets and jewelry... the dining room is flooded with letters just thanking me for my service. I wanted to burn them but Ma insists it would be wrong to do.” She suddenly felt very sheepish explaining her sudden wealth as if it were an annoyance when Saraven might actually be scraping.

 

“ Those things are rightfully yours as much as mine, really,” she muttered. “You were the real hero. I was tagging along for, well, ulterior motives.”

 

"Enjoy your treasure. Save some for later, if you can. Whatever you thought at the time, you still earned it." He grinned at her, able to risk showing his teeth now that they were actually alone. He felt lighter. Zudarra smiled back without realizing that she was. Saraven so rarely smiled but now when he did it felt as if the clouds had parted and the heavenly light of Aetherius shone down on Zudarra in golden rays that warmed her inside and out.

 

"Because no matter how you feel, what you do also matters. And  _ you _ were there at the gates with me. Not St. Alessia." He said that quietly, that no passing ear might overhear it. In these latter days those words were blasphemous. "Akatosh may have saved us all, but it was  _ you _ who saved Skingrad."

 

_ And it was you who saved me.  _ He let the words hang between them unsaid for a moment, knowing she was already struggling with strong emotion. Then he tapped his chest with two fingers, superstitious reflex, and turned to go. "Get some sleep. It's going to be a long day."

 

“ Yeah, Saraven, you too,” she said stupidly, sending him off with a half-wave. She didn't return the ritualistic gesture. When other people did it she had to stifle the urge to roll her eyes. She stared at the door for a minute after he had left, body deflating as she exhaled, and then she sat back down on the bed.

 

_ He's a better friend than I deserve _ , she thought, and leaned down to open her bag for night clothes.

 

* * *

 

 

Saraven returned to the Guildhouse with light steps, even taking the effort to occasionally inhale so he could blow steam out into the rapidly cooling air. He passed an occasional person, and it would look odd if he did not seem to breathe. Most people wouldn't notice something like that, but you never knew when someone might.

 

Narial was waiting in the living quarters, sitting on the edge of the bed, far from the warmth and noise of the communal supper in the next room. He was already armored down, staring at nothing. He looked up when Saraven's shadow fell across him, damaged heart jumping and fluttering.

 

"Did you find her?" he asked.

 

"Yes. It's fine. Zudarra is quick to anger and quick to forgive." He went around and sat on the other edge of the bed as Narial lay down on his back, dragging his legs up onto the coverlet. "I can't promise she will always be kind to you."

 

Narial nodded, shutting his eyes. Saraven felt him grow calmer even without having to apply influence.

 

"So we'll ride out tomorrow," the Imperial said. His tone was not quite questioning.

 

"Yes. You will stand guard outside the cave. It may be a couple of days, I don't know. We need to know that no one comes in behind us." And Narial was already accustomed to a guard post, and was absolutely not ready to survive any kind of real combat again yet.

 

At this moment he could have just said "You'll wait outside because you're not ready to fight yet," and in his current state Narial might not have minded. He did not do that for the same reason that he fed from the man's wrist and not his throat. One day he would be better, and then he would have to live with the memory of all of this. Saraven would not increase the Imperial's shame any more than he must. Before he was damaged to the point of not being able to think about it any more, Narial had been a lover only of women. One day he might be again, and then he would perhaps be uncomfortable remembering that he had been intimate with a man, even the strange and alien intimacy of bloodletting.

 

But at this moment he was holding out his wrist. Saraven took it, wrapping his thrall's mind in comfort and approval like a warm heavy blanket.


	5. Chapter 5

The early morning sounds of a city which had just begun to stir carried through damp air; a mallet striking pegs from a construction site the next block over, the quiet conversation of workers grabbing breakfast from a street vendor, a dog barking. Dew slicked the cobble beneath Zudarra's pads and she breathed in the fresh air deeply, invigorated by rest and the fact that yesterday's drama was past. She was also rather excited that she might be able to kill something today.

 

Zudarra's new armor had been styled after Ne Quin-al Pangolin armor, a type of medium scale armor developed in Elsweyr. Her decision to “downgrade” to a lighter armor had nothing to do with any mortal weakness and everything to do with scale armor being more flexible and easy for Zudarra to remove without any aid. Unlike Imperial Dragonscale these lay flat with rounded tips, the polished brass nearly golden when the light caught them just so. The scales only adorned the cuirass and pauldrons- she also wore steel poleyns that rose mid-way up her thighs and down to the top of her shin. Below that her padded pants ended at her ankles. Above them a chainmail skirt covered her, half concealed beneath a purely decorative, teal cloth skirt shaped like faulds. Little golden tassels hung from the ends at regular intervals, a common design in the robes of the Khajiit upper class. It was a bit flashy, even for her.

 

She'd been singed and bloodied enough times in the Deadlands to have learned her lesson; the helm enclosed most of her face and the back of her skull, leaving only her muzzle exposed below a nasal. It was the same brassy color as the cuirass, five sharp and tapering scales fanning out and sweeping up away from her face. They were not dissimilar to hickory leaves. Two of these points were meant to protect her otherwise naked ears. A chain hood hung from beneath her chin, attached the the downward sweeping cheek guards, and the back of her helm in lieu of a restricting gorget. A teal shirt covered the padding on her arms, and over that she wore steel bracers that matched her poleyns and fingerless leather gloves. She wore her thick leather belt over the top of the cuirass and now had a potion bag laced to it on the side opposite her axe, and a baldric for two handed weapons or other gear- although she carried none at the moment.

 

It was a hard thing to lose her vampiric abilities. Zudarra had taken to carrying potions to enhance her speed and strength. They were not to use wantonly. Zudarra knew that she would reach her old level of functioning in time, but she had to work for it. These were only for emergencies. Sometimes she underestimated her enemies, overestimated herself.

 

Her getup attracted a few looks as she passed through the streets, and the guard at the front gate greeted her with a startled “Good morning, Sir... I mean, Ma'am.” She grunted at him and went out toward the stables. Shadow saw her from the pen, whickered and lazily plodded over.

 

* * *

 

 

Saraven made sure that Narial ate a good breakfast and that their saddlebags were full of food and waterskins, and then he led the Imperial back toward the new gates of Kvatch. The black gelding and the brown mare came trotting up to the fence as they saw the two of them approaching, Cassy blowing air a little disapprovingly as she recognized the vampire's scent. Saraven patted Ves, and turned to look for a familiar huge black horse as the gelding blew in his ear.

 

"There's Shadow," he said. "Have you been renewing acquaintances?"

 

"Snorf," Ves explained, ears high. And there was Zudarra, resplendent in a style of armor that Saraven did not believe he had ever seen. He approved the mail hood. A strong body and a big strong heart would be incredibly attractive to vampires if they were about to encounter any. Protection for the throat, the arms, the inner thighs was important.

 

“ Good morning,” she said politely to them both, giving the human a quick once-over before following them into the stable to retrieve their gear. She immediately decided that Shadow's armor was not necessary today, partly because of the time it took to equip and partly because she felt as if it would be showing off.

 

"Morning, Ma'am," Narial said politely. 

 

"I don't know what we'll find," Saraven told her, as they were loading the beasts. Narial quietly fed each horse part of an apple when he thought nobody was watching. "There may be vampires. It may be ogres. Nobody knows."

 

“ Little difference it makes to me! They'll fall all the same,” Zudarra said, grinning widely as she led Shadow out of the gate and paused to haul herself up into the saddle. Nervousness and excitement both fluttered in her belly, an interspecies butterfly mating dance. It would be the first time she'd fought alongside Saraven as a mere mortal since the final battle of the Crisis, and even then, she had done little – survived a stomping foot and revived the vampire with her blood, those were her only contributions. Zudarra knew it would be hard for her to bear anyone being better than her at anything, but she tried to squash down any jealous thoughts before they could take root. This was Saraven. She didn't have to compete with him.

 

Narial mounted up easily enough, hauling the weight of himself and his armor into the saddle, and tipped a steel helm from its position hanging on a thong forward over his head. There was a bit of nipping and huffing among the three horses before Cassy and Ves fell in beside and slightly behind Shadow. Bar making sure they were headed in the right direction, nudging with a heel every so often, Saraven mostly let the gelding have his head.

 

Zudarra would have rather had a warm summer breeze than crisp autumn air on most days, but the morning was not too chilly as they rode down the sloping, zagging path and then followed the road West. She sat upright in the saddle, ears perked and alert. She glanced at Narial from time to time, curious about how he and Saraven had met and other particulars of their relationship, but not enough to risk asking. He apparently belonged to the Fighter's Guild also so the story was likely not an interesting one. She also felt a little guilty of her treatment of him, but that niggling emotion was more of a burr in her fur than a full-blown desire to fix it.

 

Narial seemed ignorant of her scrutiny, riding along quietly, head mostly bowed inside his helmet. He sat his horse well enough, hands resting on the saddle horn. If he was even listening to their conversation it was not evident.

 

"I didn't used to go down after them right off," Saraven said as they rode. "They're faster, stronger, they could see in the dark and I couldn't. Khajiit has that all over a Dunmer, I tell you. I'd camp out in front of the door, pile up a big pile of wood and wait. Only the old ones are patient. So the young ones would try to burst out sooner or later, and I'd use my fireball to light them up as they ploughed into the woodpile." He snorted at a memory. "Of course, then I'd still have to go down with a torch and see if there were old ones. They can lie quiet and sleep for months if they have to. I had one come up after me out of a drip-pond under a stalactite. She had weeds growing in her clothes."

 

Zudarra frowned.

 

“ That doesn't sound very chivalrous” she said. To her thinking as a former gladiator, combat was a means of proving her prowess against an equal, not something purely utilitarian and to be avoided if possible. 

 

Saraven made a disparaging noise at the word chivalrous. "Vampires in a pack don't try to play fair. You can't either." 

 

“You might want to think twice about playing with fire nowadays,” she added, dryly.  He had no response beyond a dry huff of air between his lips.

 

The forest gradually gave way to the rolling golden hills Zudarra was most familiar with, tall grasses shimmering as they moved with the wind. At Saraven's direction they departed from the road, following a deer trail over the hills. If they looked behind they'd be able to see the distant ocean and a cluster of orange dots that were the terracotta roofs of Anvil. It was a peaceful ride through lovely scenery. Zudarra realized that she never, ever wanted to leave this world again.

 

She could see the bleached white stone of an Ayleid ruin further ahead, overgrown with vines and half-hidden by a copse of trees, but that was not their target. One of the bluffs jutting out among the hills was sheer on one side, and Zudarra didn't need Saraven to tell her the entrance was there. She could smell the stink of old blood and death before she even saw the crevice, and the dry scent of undeath not dissimilar to Saraven. She knew that he could probably smell his fellow vampires just as well as she could, and glanced aside at him, brows furrowed under her helm.

 

He knew when they were close. The hackles rose along his neck in a way that he had not believed was still possible, and though he did not pick up the scent as soon as Zudarra, it wasn't long after. Weakness. He suppressed a swell of disdain: he could annihilate some of these and take all of their prey very easily if they even had prey worth stealing. They would be young and thirsty and urgently stupid. He scented no living blood. His nostrils flared and his head came up as he found another thread:

 

Strength.

 

"There's one old one," he said gruffly. 

 

“ Is this the first time you've went hunting since...?” she asked carefully, reigning Shadow up a few feet away from the entrance.

 

"Yes. I haven't been in after these since we met. It's past time I was at it again." He swung down from Ves and took the horse to stake out at a patch of greenery, beckoning Narial after him. "These have taken more lives than should be possible out here. There are at least five of the younger ones. Maybe six or seven."

 

He hoped that there had been a mining crew or something, some hapless party of archaeologists, rather than that they had been out hunting the new homesteads around Kvatch. He did not want to see the body of a child today. In his mind's eye he firmly wished any number of adult strangers dead rather than that.

 

He had made little use of his one fire spell in their fight against the forces of Dagon, but it had never left him even after the change. He could feel that little thread of fire under the skin, magicka coiled and potent and waiting. Now he flexed the fingers of his left hand as he drew the daedric sword with his right.

 

"Do you have what you need, Narial?" he asked.

 

"Yes, Saraven."

 

"All right. If we're not out before dusk tomorrow, go back to the Guildhouse and wait there. Don't let night fall on the second day, understand?"

 

"I understand," said the Imperial, helmeted head turning to watch them. Saraven moved toward the mouth of the cave, pushing back his hood that he might have all of his vision.

 

Zudarra staked Shadow down as well, took a waterskin from the saddlebag and tied it to her belt before following Saraven to the entrance. She let the Dunmer go in first, her eyes quickly adjusting to the dim as they squeezed into the narrow opening. She could already hear flies buzzing and the fetid stench growing stronger. Then, not far from the entrance, they came to a crossroad where another tunnel branched off from the main corridor.

 

Rot hit her like a punch to the face and Zudarra's lips pulled back in disgust. She could see the dark shapes of desiccated bodies piled atop one another from there. At one time it would not have bothered her at all. Now it turned her stomach.

 

Saraven knew what they would find before they saw it. He had seen it many times before. The ten bodies were piled carelessly toward one side of the room, some clothed, some naked, most in various stages of decomposition. There was one human man or woman so bloated that it was impossible to tell what sex they had been, yellow fluid leaking from the rotten sockets and pooling beneath the body in a mixture of other foulness. Tiny mushrooms were already proliferating around the corpse, white caps damp and shiny.

 

He had braced himself for the flood of images, for obtrusive memories blotting out the present, but it did not happen. It had ceased to happen with his death, and the smell seemed to have almost no effect on him: it was just information, like the color of the floor. From Zudarra's expression inside her helm the same was not true for her.

 

The bodies of two men lay sprawled nearer them, one in full chainmail without a hood or helm, the other stripped to his padded trousers. They were much newer than the others, dead only a couple of days, still pale and probably only just ceasing to be stiff as rigor passed off. A steel sword had been thrown down contemptuously near one, streaked with black blood.  Zudarra waited while Saraven inspected the bodies. She felt no pressing need to do the same.

 

"The mercenaries," he grunted. "No children. That's good." He turned to go back out to the main corridor, blade in hand, pausing to listen before he went on downward. Zudarra slid her axe out of its scabbard and followed him down, moving beside the Dunmer when the corridor opened out a little wider. She held her breath as long as she was able and inhaled deeply when they were further away, although she could still smell the rot. Saraven kept to the right near the wall, trying to step on as few of the fat cairn boletes as possible. Crushed, they gave off an earthy odor that might waft downhill.

 

There was a rustle of cloth from around the bend ahead of them. They were approaching a slightly larger room. An island of green jutted upward in the center of an air shaft with a circle of dirt floor around it. Ferns and grasses reached upward toward the sun, and an enterprising vine of some sort trailed between the islet and the opening above, leaves fluttering in the draft. Two passages led off to approximately left and right, both leading downward.

 

As Saraven drew nearer he heard a growl. He bared his teeth in instinctive response, and then something was rushing forward out of the darkness, skirting the light as it made with supernatural speed for the sound of a beating heart. It was a woman, a tall, gaunt Nord with lank and dirty blond hair and a new blue robe, just a smattering of blood around the collar. She was charging Zudarra with clawed hands out, mouth open in a desperate grimace, faster than the Khajiit could intelligently react. None of the stupid monsters she'd been wetting her blades with lately were that fast. Zudarra jerked the axe up to shield herself just as grimy hands grabbed hold of her pauldron and the back of her helm, the top point hitting the Nord at a bad angle.

 

The creature snarled and tried to yank Zudarra's helmet off, almost heedless of the axe point digging into her shoulder, drawing a trickle of black blood. Zudarra growled as her helm was jerked aside, partially blinding her as the eye holes became misaligned on her face. She caught the Nord's wrist in her left hand and wrestled it back, trying to keep her from pulling the helm up completely. 

 

Saraven took two quick steps and sliced with the tip of the daedric blade. It bisected the Nord from shoulder to hip. She screamed into Zudarra's face as black blood ran sluggishly, still trying to get the helm off even as her spine was severed and her legs went limp. She tried her damnedest to drag the Khajiit down with her, hand still clawing at Zudarra's helm with immortal strength. Zudarra released the vampire and flipped off her own helm by grabbing the chainmail hood in her fist and pushing it all up over her head. As soon as it came free and tumbling down with the vampire Zudarra swung down hard at the ground, a loud thwock reverberating off the walls of the cavern as axe blade drove into skull across the side of her face, from temple to jaw.

 

The vampire's scream was cut off as she began to dissolve into ash. Zudarra froze as what was once a person began to disintegrate, black flakes of skin sloughing off and crumbling to dust as the flesh beneath quickly followed suit. Body, blood and bone burst into a gray cloud that settled to the floor before the noise had stopped echoing. Zudarra's breath caught in her throat, the sclera of her eyes large and white. She could momentarily smell her own terror.

 

_ That's what will happen to Saraven someday. _

 

"Get it back on now," Saraven snapped, whirling toward the doorways. He could not yet hear the rapid tattoo of unnaturally fast footsteps, but he knew that they would be coming. They would let the stupidest one go first to see what happened. If the first one died, they would be more cautious; if not, they would group up and try to steal the first one's kill.

 

In fact, the sound was audible to Zudarra first. There were three. Two pairs of feet in boots, one the soft scuff-scuff of leather shoes.

 

She got hold of herself the next instant, snatching up her helm from the floor and sliding it quickly back over her head and neck. This first encounter did not bode well. If Saraven hadn't been there... She raised her axe close to her body in a defensive posture and jerked toward the sounds rushing at them from the tunnels.

 

“ Three!” Zudarra snarled, and as she did twin blurs shot out of the left tunnel and separated to encircle them, moving almost too fast for the Khajiit to track. She whirled toward one, axe pulled back to bash it in the head and saw at the last moment that it was an Orc in ragged, water-damaged leather, his skin a sickening milky green. He wore a shortsword but came at her with his claws instead, lips pulled up in a feral snarl.   To Saraven her movement seemed so slow as to be dreamlike.

 

She yelped as something caught her raised right wrist from behind to yank her weapon back, another hand ripping at her chainmail hood. She didn't see that it was a Breton in full steel plate including an open-faced helm, skin so pale that he was nearly translucent.  But Saraven did see  – already he was darting forward.  They were too close to Zudarra for him to set the flame on them.

 

She kicked out at the Orc and he staggered backward,  unarmored and momentarily off-balance. One of his feet landed in the bright sun and he roared in agony as smoke immediately rose from his flesh. At the same time Zudarra  elbowed the Breton with her left arm while fighting to wrench her other free of his grasp. 

 

The vampire twitched as Zudarra's elbow hit him but he did not let go. Saraven had seen that elbow split a skull. The creature hardly moved. His armor counted for something, but the cuirass had taken a dent on impact and he had not been knocked back. There wasn't time to think that over as Saraven reached a mail-gloved hand to yank at the fasteners of the cuirass, then stab at the gap with the daedric blade. The Breton whirled, hissing, flailing his armored arm. Black blood spurted. 

 

Saraven ducked the blow effortlessly.

 

"Weak," he growled, half-aware of what he was saying, and ran the fledgling through the eye. The Breton twitched and gurgled in the moment before he burst into ashes, armor clattering on the dirt floor.

 

As soon as the Breton’s grip released her Zudarra rocked forward, shifted her arm to guide the axe through a sweeping sideways arc just as the Orc stumbled sideways out of the burning shaft of light. It was the only reason she was able to get him in time. The ebon axe cut into his unprotected neck with enough force to slam him sideways. The edge bit into spine without severing it, stinking black blood jetting out as he fell down and away from the axe with a wet splortch as Zudarra followed through in a spin. He would have crumbled to ash by the time she looked at him again.  Both had attacked and died in the span of less than three seconds.

 

The third vampire was a near-black Khajiit, very dark brown with even darker stripes and whorls and a tangled mane of black hair. He moved more slowly, watching the others, eyes flickering between Zudarra and Saraven as his lips wrinkled back from his teeth. He had fed better than the others – he was thin, but not deathly so. He might pass for alive if you didn't look too closely at the eyes. His nostrils were flared wide, ears flat and tail lashing. In the instant in which he appeared he struggled for possession of himself:  _ Prey. Foe. Blood.  _ He wore a badly tarnished mail shirt and a pair of linen trousers that had gone out at the knees and been torn away below to accommodate the big pawed feet.

 

As she spun through a cloud of descending ash Zudarra’s eyes landed on a humanoid shape but her brain did not have time to register that it was a Khajiit before it darted out of her vision and appeared behind Saraven, wickedly long claws stretched out to slash his throat from behind. This one was less stupid. It immediately identified that Saraven was the stronger, more pressing threat.

 

Saraven turned belatedly to look for the third vampire, and that was why it gouged the side of his head and locked the other set of claws into his left arm instead of tearing out his throat. Lines of fiery agony raked his skull. The pain in his arm as claws dug through the holes in his mail was hardly noticeable by comparison. Saraven's blood spattered the creature's fur. He automatically pushed his shoulder up against the threat of teeth at his throat, ancient reflex, but the vampire wasn't trying to bite him even in order to end the fight. The two of them were a blur from any external reference point, moving too fast to be seen.

 

"Mine," growled the Khajiit in his ear, bass rumble. Saraven jerked his elbow back into the creature's gut, trying to buy some space, and the second time it swiped at his face he leaned away, claws whiffing past his eyes. He couldn't knock the wind out of something that didn't need to breathe. A clawed foot made a spirited attempt to disembowel him, and he felt three points of pain bloom on his chest, but the kick disengaged them. He raised his empty left hand and let the fire go.

 

The Khajiit screamed and staggered back, throwing himself to the ground as he tried to roll and put the flames out, but his undead flesh was supernaturally flammable. In seconds he had burst into ash, leaving behind only a few sullenly glowing fragments of cloth from his garments.

 

Zudarra's eyes flicked around in a frantic effort to get a visual fix on the vampire but she couldn't tell one from another until someone went up in flames.  _ Saraven! _ her mind screamed, but Saraven stood, fangs bared at the ashes of his fallen enemy. Clearly it was not he who had burned. She exhaled heavily as her shoulders sagged, lowering her weapon and stepping toward him.

 

“ You're bleeding,” Zudarra said, and raised a hand to heal him. The spiral of magicka momentarily lit the cavern with gentle blue light and the pain faded.

 

There had been a voice.

 

_ Zudarra.  _ He shook his head once, to clear it, and turned to look at her. There was no scent of blood, and her heart was strong. They had not even wounded her. He was aware of pride even as he firmly shoved down the suggestion that she was a prize very much worth guarding for himself. He could not choose all of his thoughts; but the work of his hands and teeth, that he could choose.

 

“Thank you,” he said as Zudarra dropped her hand and looked down at the flakes of ash scattered across the floor, her tail twitching irritably. She'd been useless, little more than bait.

 

“ I can still smell others,” she said stiffly, not looking up from the floor. Her ears strained to listen, but it seemed the others were too smart to run straight to their deaths.

 

“No, we haven't yet seen the old one,” he said. "There will be at least one or two more of the others. The ones who were sane enough to wait longer. It is a pattern we will see again."

 

He turned toward the left corridor, flicking his sword through an arc to scatter the ashes from the blade.

 

"Good start," he grunted approvingly. "Bite your tongue if you're ever in a bind. It'll distract most."

 

Zudarra briefly believed Saraven to be mocking her and she narrowed her eyes at his back as he turned down one of the corridors, letting him walk ahead, but then realized he was just trying to be encouraging. One fist clenched beside her. She had no choice  – she couldn't let him see how far she had fallen. She couldn't leave him to fight vampires with one hand and shelter her with the other.

 

Zudarra slowly reached into the bag at her side, trying to do so quietly. She could not hide the soft whisper of her hand against the leather flap, nor could she hide the sound of a cork sliding from a vial, but those noises ought to blend in seamlessly enough with her breathing and the rustle of cloth faulds as she walked. She could tell them apart easily by touch, as the speed fortifiers were smaller and slimmer than the vials for strength.

 

She drank one of each and tucked the empties carefully back into the bag, briefly closing her eyes at the ecstasy of power flooding her being. The armor on her back and the axe in her hand were suddenly weightless, and when she opened her eyes the walls passed by in slow motion. With practiced ease she fell into a normal gait. Controlling herself to appear normal until she needed not to be was something Zudarra had always been exceptional at. She grinned into the darkness, every muscle quivering with stored energy that ached to be released. 

 

The hallway led down into darkness, darkness and more and more mushrooms squelching underfoot. Saraven supposed there wasn't much point in stealth now, but he did his best to walk softly as the walls around them seemed to fade from gray to dark navy to almost black. He had never been certain whether there was constant telepathic contact between an elder vampire and their created fledglings. Certainly there had been no such thing between him and Zudarra. But they did seem to know when the others were dead.

 

At the bottom of the passage a cold blue light glowed, limning a pointed arch of white stone. The scent of other vampires was stronger here, dry and bitter, mingled with an older smell of mortal blood. Saraven was able to identify it with the two dead mercenaries. Most of what was in them had gone to feed those up ahead. Over all hung the strong, almost incense-like tang breathed out by one much, much older than Saraven.

 

The light proved to come from crystals embedded in little niches in the walls. Beyond the doorway was a much taller, broader hallway of white stone, pocked and decayed by time, the dust of ages built up in the corners where floor met wall. The main walkway had seen enough traffic that it was clear. Saraven was not sure he believed vampires would stoop to actually sweep it.

 

Up ahead the hall opened out into a chamber with a high ceiling. Pointed blue stones in filigreed settings stood in iron stands, lighting the room with more of their blue glow. There was a white seat at the far end, smooth and elegant in the manner of Ayleid masonry all over Cyrodiil, and a balcony ran along each side up above. No one was yet in view; but he heard the whisper of bare feet on the stone, and a whisper of words just beneath the threshold of understanding.

 

Saraven stopped in the first pointed gateway, inhaling audibly as his head turned to and fro.  Zudarra stopped beside and slightly behind him.  She had done something, Saraven realized. He missed the whisper of sound, straining his ears for footsteps or movement, but he heard her heart change. Still steady, but faster.

 

He did not have time to ask. 

 

Zudarra’s ear flicked backward – something was racing at them from behind.  As she turned, Saraven saw movement from in front as a woman vaulted over one of the high balconies.  She landed in a nimble crouch before springing up and streaking toward them. To any other mortal she'd have been an indistinct blur, but if Zudarra had been looking in that direction she would have seen the vampire move as clearly as Saraven could.  

 

She was either Breton or Imperial, short black hair shaggily cut with a knife, dressed in soft shoes and black linen clothing in relatively good condition aside from minor tears. They weren't even stained with blood. The smoothness of her paper-white skin belied her actual age, whatever it may be. The vampire didn't hiss as she darted in a zigzagging pattern down the wide hall, her face calm and composed, leaving her final trajectory toward Zudarra's back with a glass dagger raised – but she diverted at the last instant, springing toward Saraven instead.

 

_ Unbelievably fast.  _ Saraven raised his sword to the guard barely in time to deflect the glass dagger from his throat. His mail tunic had a high neck, but in a vampire's hand glass could shear through steel as though it were stiff paper. 

 

Since he was changed he had never encountered a foe who could match him for speed. Saraven lowered his head, lips tight over his teeth. To lunge after her would end him, and then probably end them both. He did not believe for one instant that there was no one else above, and the doorway at least provided some protection.  He snapped a short kick at her knee, not willing to commit enough to lose his balance.

 

The woman hopped out of Saraven's reach with the ease and speed of a bird, hopped forward as his leg came back down and feinted a strike at his head again. Her left hand opened and needles of ice sprayed from her palm along with white vapor.

 

Saraven's blade turned with him as he interposed his pauldron to protect his head. He swept the blade down and up again in a sudden attempt at a strike from beneath, carrying through even as cold so intense that it burned struck at his mail. A couple of needles got through, and he hissed between his teeth as he felt them sink into his flesh. He was not yet ready to risk taking one hand from the blade to attempt a casting.

 

Saraven's blade caught the vampire's belly as she hopped back again, drawing a shallow gash from gut to breastbone. She hissed out in pain as blood spattered the floor and she staggered back, bumped against the wall and backpedaled further as she raised one arm to heal herself. Light twisted around her and the wound began to close.

 

Zudarra had turned in time to see a sleek Argonian, scales bloodlessly white, twin crests fanned like the white wings of a bat as he ran up the wall and kicked off. An undyed tan linen tunic flapped around his hips, slow to her enhanced eyes, as he plunged toward her with one taloned foot reaching for her throat. Behind him, his tail swung majestically to the side, keeping his balance. Crimson eyes gleamed in the darkness, but there was no show of teeth, no warning noise. There was perfect silence except for the scuff of bare scale on stone.

 

In what was probably a stupid move but a knee-jerk reaction the axe dropped from Zudarra's hand. She reached out as she shifted her weight forward on one foot with the other behind her, bracing her paws against the ground to bear the impact that was coming. Her hands met the foot, pushing against him as his weight drove into her, one hand clasping an ankle and the other closing around two of his long toes.

 

She slid back into the light of the Ayleid hall, twisting her arms to spin him off balance as she shoved the Argonian back, veins bulging in the muscles of her arms and shoulders under layers of padding and brass.

 

The Argonian was forcibly whirled through the air, taken by surprise. One hand darted down to take his weight on the floor and he somersaulted backward, jerking his foot from her grasp. He was strong, but not as strong as that: she could feel a little snap and grind as one of the metatarsals gave from the torque. A brighter flare of blue glowed in the darkness as he rolled fast and hard back onto his feet, Zudarra using that time to scoop her weapon from the ground. A small knife flew out of the darkness as he flicked one hand. Dim light gleamed on the slick blackness at the end of the steel blade.

 

Zudarra grinned.  She felt that she could pluck it from the air if she wanted to, but erring on the side of caution she stepped aside instead. Then she dove at him, snarling,  axe bound for his skull.

 

Saraven threw the fireball as he saw the vampire raise her arm to cast the heal , but did not wait to see if it made contact. He was already pursuing, blade whirling before him as he tried for a down-stroke at her shoulder. Something clicked and shifted in his chest, stab and ache. The ice needles had melted, but one had cracked a rib first. He could feel his own cold blood oozing out onto his padding. Something tiny and fast-moving struck the floor well past them both and skidded blade-first across the great flags, striking sparks that cast brief, long shadows on the white stone.

 

The vampire jumped sideways from the blast of fire and directly into Saraven's path as the sword came down on her, the weight of the blade knocking her to her knees as it scraped against clavicle. She yelped, turned her fall into a roll, blood from her shoulder smearing across the floor as she tumbled away from him. She rolled to her feet and sprinted back the way she had come, again in a zigzag to avoid being hit with a second fireball. She held her hand against the injury, healing light glowing in her palm again. She paused some distance away and looked back over her shoulder to see if the Dunmer would pursue.

 

The Argonian barely rolled aside in time. The contact of ebony with floor seemed loud as the wrath of a god, and then he snapped a kick at the side of her shin before he kipped back onto his feet.  Zudarra’s axe rebounded from stone and she staggered back, nearly losing her balance. After righting herself she ran after the vampire again, drawing back her arm with the axe parallel to the ground as if she meant to stab into his belly with the pointed tip. The Argonian scrabbled backward away from the pointed tip, curling one thigh over to protect his belly with the larger scales on the outside of his leg. In the last moment as she thrust forward the weapon she raised her arm instead to hook the curved blade on the back of his head and drive the bottom of the blade into his skull.

 

The axe struck with devastating force. His clawed feet kicked frantically at her arms and helm as he arched his back, teeth finally bared in uncontrollable reflex, and then he exploded into ashes.

 

Saraven did not follow the other vampire, falling back against the wall by the door as he raised his empty hand to heal himself. To charge forward into darkness was idiocy, and he would not leave Zudarra behind alone. Behind him he heard a frantic scraping and then a sound like a giant powder-puff being struck by a fist, and he grinned into the darkness.

 

The female vampire was still watching them.  Her left hand twitched as she thought about spraying him with ice again, but with her companion dead the odds were against her now. She scowled at them, turned, and zipped away.

 

Zudarra was grinning as she raised herself tall over the pile of ashes and turned to rejoin Saraven in the larger hall, resting her axe against her shoulder and swaying cockily as she walked.

 

“ Mine is dead, what happened to yours?” she teased.

 

"She ran. We're into the ones that can heal themselves now," Saraven said, eyeing her sideways. "What have you done?" He moved toward the wall, out of the center of the space. At least then they could only be shot from one balcony. Zudarra followed, her toothy grin faltering.

 

“ What have I done? I bashed its head in, that's what.”

 

"And well done, girl, but you know and I know that he was faster than you are. Don't make me ask again-"

 

There was a rustle of fabric from above and to their left. A cloaked figure stepped lightly over the rail and almost seemed to drift to the floor in front of the throne. The cloak was white. The robes were white. A belt of cloth-of-gold trailed golden tassels, old and worn but still sullenly gleaming.

 

A cage of iron or some other metal hung far above the throne, long dulled by time. Its structure was something like an angular seed pod hanging point-down from a heavy array of chains, though one had come loose and it now swung gently crooked. Inside it crystals bigger than Zudarra's head gave forth a brighter, more eerie illumination. They caused the white robes almost to glow. The figure's shoulders were broad and the voice that spoke was deep, raising the hair along Saraven's spine again as the change in the air carried the scent of incense and gravedust to his nostrils: Strength.

 

"I cared little for the newborns. They were dirty and foolish. But Nevaeia was precious to me, and you have killed him. Go now if you wish to keep your pitiful life, fledgling of a strange mother. Leave your mortal thrall. She will feed my last daughter."  The black haired human looked out at them from behind the throne.

 

Power washed over Saraven in numbing waves. He had to fight the desire to kneel, to run, he even felt a traitorous and shameful urge to club Zudarra in the head and carry her to the throne as an offering. He stood still, one hand on the wall, unable to raise his sword.

 

The fur of her ruff raised unseen beneath her chain hood but Zudarra strode forward purposefully, her tail swaying behind her. Even she, without the senses of a vampire, could feel the enormity of the aura this creature exuded. But in that moment she was not afraid, drunk with her own power and the satisfaction of having felled a strong opponent.

 

“ I'm nobody's thrall,” Zudarra snarled, stopping several feet away from him with her feet spread apart and her chest puffed out. “But we'll gladly send you to meet your dear Nevaeia!” One ear rotated back; Saraven was not moving to join her. Cocky as she was, Zudarra was not willing to risk looking away from the vampire to check on him.

 

"Silence, you prating jackdaw." The cloaked vampire raised one hand and made a flicking gesture. The blow that struck Zudarra was like being hit by a charging horse. There was no ripple in the air for warning, there was no traveling event horizon to dodge: there was nothing, and then there was overwhelming force.

 

Zudarra slammed against the wall by the arched entry before she even knew what had happened, limbs spread out like a starfish. The axe clattered down from her hand. The wind was driven from her and she opened her mouth in a silent scream. Her skull had knocked hard against the wall and the crushing force broke at least one of her ribs. Finally she forced her lungs to reinflate and a delayed scream tore from her throat. She slid down the wall, barely managing to catch herself on one knee and one palm. Her ears were ringing, the room was spinning. Dust from the cracked stone floated down after her.

 

She panted, trying to get her eyes to focus, fighting through the pain and confusion.

 

"And now you try to resist me. You?" The voice was amused. Saraven felt the elder probing at his mind, pressing in on every side, compressing him like a fist around an orange. The young vampire was helpless to defend himself, without the learned practices of years upon years of constant defense against a cohort of voracious peers -

 

But then the ancient attempted to give an order.

 

_ COME. _

 

The young vampire did not know what to do. The old Dunmer had faced this same moment a score of times. Saraven's shields snapped up like a web of consuming shadows, evil memory on evil memory, and his mind slid from the old one's grasp almost as easily as he had once repelled a much younger undead in a cage far from this place.

 

His head snapped up at Zudarra's scream. He was in time to see the white-robed vampire push back his hood, revealing an elegant and youthful Imperial face with terrifyingly ancient eyes. The old one smiled just a little.

 

"Tsk," he said, and lifted one hand. Saraven was yanked into the air and slammed into the ceiling. For a second he knew nothing, stunned by the blow, head hanging limp. The moment of oblivion was brief, and then there was pain: pain in his back and legs, pain in his left arm, pain in the right hand that had clung so tightly to the daedric blade that it was cutting into his palm. Dust and tiny bits of rock showered down around him. He lay suspended against the stone, crushed in place as by a giant hand. It was good that he did not need to breathe. He did not believe he could have.

 

_ Saraven? _

 

Zudarra raised her head toward the source of the noise and the blurry shape on the ceiling suddenly came into focus. Her heart skipped a beat. She had been dazed but remembered magicka now. The healing energy poured from her hand and she felt her mind begin to clear, the pain in her chest receding as ribs clicked together. In doing so she had depleted half her reserve. Her fingers reached out to snatch up her dropped weapon and she stood, suddenly overcome with horror.

 

_ Saraven! He's crushing him! _

 

Zudarra sprinted at the vampire with a wordless snarl at supermortal speed, banking sharply to the right and then the left as she circled closer. A line of dust swirled up from the floor after her, her pads on the stone a rapid patpatpat.

 

"I see that the alchemists are always with us." As he spoke the vampire gestured again. Zudarra was jerked into the air in a powerful grip, hauled to one side at blinding speed and then released, leaving her sailing toward the spiny light fixture above the throne.

 

Saraven would have writhed in the elder's grip if he could have moved at all. He had no breath to make a noise, but his mouth was open in an awful grimace, teeth bared. The ancient watched Zudarra's trajectory with bottomless black eyes, bright and cold as a drop of ink. Saraven felt his intent, even as he struggled to maintain his shields, even as his body was gradually crushed: he would wait until she was nearly there and then accelerate her again, smashing her into the sharp points until her blood ran down to shower him and his surviving offspring. It would cement his control over the survivor, for such a loss as they had nearly suffered would normally provoke at least some small challenge.

 

_ No. No!  _ Saraven parted the shield like a cloud of smoke and jabbed at the elder's mind without the slightest hope of doing harm, hoping to produce one second's distraction. The ancient's head twitched away from the now-falling Khajiit, staring in Saraven in something like outrage.

 

"You dare?"

 

Zudarra shrieked as she sailed up like a rag doll tossed into the air, feet kicking in useless panic. Her belly flopped inside as she reached the height of her trajectory, weightless for a moment before she fell. The points of the iron cage raced at her. She reached out, grabbing the thick chain in one hand while holding the hilt of the weapon with her other. Her body jackknifed immediately, her arm burning as it was forced to bear all of her weight plus the momentum from the fall. Friction burned her palm and links dug painfully into her as she slid down. The high pitched, fearful grunts she emitted while this happened would have been shameful if she'd had time to reflect on it. Her weight sent the ancient chandelier swinging and twisting through the air and the movement almost threw her off. Her single hand couldn't hold; it slipped, and she was falling, wicked points bouncing against her scaled torso but with less force than they would have if she had not slowed herself with the chain.

 

She reflexively lashed out with the axe, caught one of the horizontal bars with the head of the weapon. The cage was careening to the side, spinning wildly in one direction and then the other and Zudarra was holding on for her life with one hand, the head of the axe scraping and sliding this way and that against the bar as it moved. Her scream of pain became a roar of fury and she twisted, pulling herself up with her free hand. She clung to the bars as they swung, heart hammering so fast and so loud that her chest vibrated with the noise, leaving her nothing to do but wait for the swinging to end.

 

She was unimpaled. Saraven could not turn his head and his vision was half-blotted by red, vessels broken in his eyes, but there was no overwhelming odor of shed blood.

 

The elder suddenly loosed his grip, and Saraven found himself falling toward the floor. Then he was yanked suddenly sideways. A blue-green crystal in its stand darted past his blurred vision, and he heard the high-pitched vibration as he passed. The thing was nearly rattled out of its stand. The next one did come loose, darting through the air after Saraven as he became increasingly aware of the rapid approach of the stone balcony rail. It would break his back. He would not die quickly. He knew from painful experience that he no longer had the capacity to go into shock.

 

But he could move his arm.

 

As the ancient's face rushed past on his right he swung the butt of the sword at the hilt of the crystal. Metal struck metal and the thing shattered, splintered fragments spraying the throne, the wall, and the creature in the white robes.

 

There was a shriek of pain and outrage, and Saraven suddenly felt the pressure release. Momentum continued: he curved down and ploughed into the floor, rolling over and over, until he smacked into the wall near the throne itself. Fragments of stone were still pattering down in a glowing rain.

 

He forced air into his lungs. It was leaking into his chest through the holes his ribs had made, but he managed to gasp out,

 

"Break!"

 

A shadow fell across him. The magicka charge was so powerful that he felt the bones in his feet heal as the elder vampire stepped over them to look down at him, black eyes narrowed in fury.

 

"It is you who will break, little worm. I will protract your suffering over a thousand days and you will beg me for death."

 

The light danced and flickered as the chandelier swung overhead.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Terror pulsed through her with every heartbeat. Zudarra watched helpless from the corner of her eyes as Saraven was thrown, as he rolled like a broken toy across the floor. She was still trying to pull herself up, every movement setting the cage swaying harder again, but she didn't know what else to do. A fall from that height would break her legs and she probably did not have the magicka left to repair such massive damage.

 

Until she heard him call out.  His cry had been meant for Zudarra, not the vampire. Frantically she looked around, looked up, saw the small gaps in the links of heavy chain that held the ancient chandelier – some of them old and corroded. One arm trembling with the strain of bearing her weight, Zudarra wedged the axe blade into a link and twisted, levering it against the metal. The iron squeaked and then groaned, bending more and more under the weight of Khajiit and welkynd stone.

 

She was swaying still. Looking down, she saw the chandelier pass over the heads of the vampires and back again. She waited, trying to get the timing down just right. No time left; the link was slipping.

 

“ Roll!” She smashed the axe into the link which barely clung to the rest of the chain and she was weightless as it all came crashing down. In the next horrible moment she felt her strength bleed away, felt the sudden terrible weight of her armor press down on her and everything was suddenly happening so quickly that she had no time to comprehend as she was flung from the bars.

 

_ Roll?  _ It took a second for Saraven to realize what was happening, and then the elder in his bloodstained white robe looked up and into the falling point of the chandelier. His expression of frozen disbelief remained in front of Saraven's eyes as he rolled as hard as he could away from the wall. The pain was exquisite. Falling from the high tower hardly seemed to match it. That had been over much faster and now the impact half-deafened him,  a great crash of metal against stone and shattering welkynd screeching in his ears. The glowing blue rock shattered and flung shards in every direction when it hit. Zudarra screamed and rolled as she slammed into the ground, the world a dizzying tornado of revolving room and flying shards.

 

"Zudarra," he hissed. The fingers of one hand twitched convulsively as he healed himself. It was not enough, not close to enough, but he could move, cracked bone scraping inside him as he struggled to his knees to look around for the only thing in the world that mattered.

 

He did not care that the chandelier was now embedded point-down into the floor in an expanding cloud of gray dust. He crawled as rapidly as he could toward the glint of shining armor in the corner of the wall.

 

"Be alive," he growled under his breath. "I have power left. Be alive."  He heard her heart beating, slow but steady. Teeth flashed in the light of the shattered crystals as he crept closer. 

 

Zudarra was sure several bones had broken but right now every nerve of her body burned with pain so she couldn't quite tell. A shard of glowing stone had embedded itself in the inside of her elbow; she was conscious enough to rip it out with a snarl before releasing her heal. As she expected it was not enough; some of her more superficial wounds closed but her ribs, her legs and her head all ached horribly. She closed her eyes and let herself lie against the stone, so tired, so heavy... The bag on her belt was soaked with bitter smelling liquid, the potions within having shattered on impact with the ground or when the vampire had crushed her.

 

She cracked open her eyes and tilted her head to see what the scuffing was about and saw Saraven crawling toward her.

 

“ Heal yourself you idiot, you can't even stand,” she grunted. She knew he was going to be his bothersome selfless self if she continued to lie there like she so badly wanted to do, so Zudarra shoved herself up on her elbow, wincing as the movement jostled a broken rib. She realized that she couldn't move the toes of her left foot. Looking around, Zudarra realized that the woman – the one Saraven had let get away – was gone. Her eyes snapped wide.

 

"You first,” he started to say, hitching himself up into a sitting position. “If we can get outside - "

 

“ Saraven, Narial! The vampire!”

 

He swore under his breath, healed her once and himself twice, scrambled to his feet and ran. He dove down to grab up the daedric blade – he didn't remember dropping it – and things were still clicking in the right side of his chest but that was all right, he didn't have to breathe. He just had to run. Shattered crystal crunched underfoot. On the corners he jumped high enough to kick off the walls, faster than if he had just pivoted on his heel.

 

Zudarra hauled herself up.  She still was not fully healed, but she could walk.  She limped over to where her axe had fallen after a few seconds of scanning the glowing rubble that littered the floor. Saraven's blood was smeared on floor and wall. The ashes of the elder vampire had scattered, leaving behind a faint aura that would slowly bleed into the walls with time, diluting in the ambient magicka of this ancient place until all trace of the vampire was truly lost.

 

Zudarra moved so sluggishly, a fly in molasses. Her hand brushed against the bag on her belt. She squeezed it, feeling for anything unbroken inside, but only shards of glass clinked and crunched against one another. She licked her wet fingers afterward but nothing happened; the dose was too small to be felt.

 

She growled under her breath and jogged stiffly toward the exit. Saraven was already long gone.

 

* * *

 

Sabine  moved clumsily, ricocheting off walls like a ping pong ball as she ran, disoriented and bereaved. But more than that, she ached with thirst and could sense the throbbing of a weak and distant heart even this deep in the cave. She banged past the flimsy door, arms reaching out to grab the walls to slow her as she suddenly lurched to a stop half-hanging in the sunlight. She hissed and drew back into the shade of the cave when sunlight burned her, smoke rising from alabaster skin. But then her eyes landed on the Imperial sitting just yards away around a tiny fire and she was on him in a blur, yanking off his helm and thumbing open the clasp of his gorget before descending with a hungry snarl.

 

The sun ceased to burn as the first drops of blood rolled down her throat but she was oblivious to that, conscious of ecstasy and little else as she greedily sucked the mortal dry. She could smell another vampire on his skin, the Dunmer, and a part of her mind cackled gleefully that she had stolen his prey. The Imperial's irregular heartbeat slowed, and Sabine almost thought it had stopped for good before it fluttered weakly in a final struggle to keep going. 

 

* * *

 

_ You will be harmed by nothing else.  _ Arrogant, foolish! Saraven had completely forgotten the other vampire and now his thrall, who did not deserve any of this, was going to die for nothing at all.

 

His feet skidded on the floor of the cave section, throwing up twin plumes of dust as he scrabbled for purchase, and then he could see the open door flapping up ahead and he burst out into the sun.

 

There she was. Narial must have dragged a log over to sit on, because she was sitting next to it now, the Imperial's body cradled in her lap. His right arm hung limp, eyes half-shut and staring at nothing. He had the left braced against her shoulder, weakly resisting, but he was no more able to push her away than an infant could stop an ogre. She was not being particularly gentle, snarling as she drank, and Narial was jerked this way and that like a sack dolly.

 

Still alive. He suffered no moment of relieved paralysis, no drop in his stomach, he was already halfway to the two of them and raising the blade, ready to drive it into her dead heart.

 

It was only the instinctive urge to challenge the other that allowed Sabine to withdraw from her feeding. She dropped the dead weight from her arms and jumped up. She hissed at him as she darted backward away from the log, showing her bloody fangs, and Saraven snarled in return. With her returned strength had come some clarity of mind. Sabine had not been able to take the Dunmer the first time and his friend would be up soon.

 

The vampire narrowed her eyes at Saraven for a split second, memorizing every line on the face of the one who had killed her sire before flitting away. 

 

A gain he let her run,  disappearing somewhere into the distant Ayleid ruin and the trees that partially hid it.  The air was rich with the scent of shed human blood, potent enough to make the roots of his teeth ache. The Imperial lay where she had dropped him, head and shoulder draped lim ply over the log, eyelids stuttering up and down as he struggled to stay conscious. He was halfway to dead, lips nearly white.

 

Saraven sank to one knee beside him, lips a flat line over his teeth, restraining a growl of frustration and self-reproach. He wiped the daedric blade in the sward and then sheathed it. The horses were dancing in place, not yet sure if it was time to pull stakes and fight or run. Shadow's nostrils were huge and red as he pawed and blew. If it had been Zudarra he would have attacked the vampire bodily, but his reluctance had discouraged the other two. Even after such a short time they would probably follow the larger gelding’s lead.

 

“ Easy, Shadow,” Saraven said. “Han'atha, Ves.” He wasn't sure what to say to Cassy yet.

 

His power was gone. A very strong impulse urged him to fall on the fresh punctures and finish the man himself, reasserting possession. He quashed it as he slid an arm under Narial's shoulders, though he shuddered as that ache awakened the pain in his right ribs again.

 

“ S...?” The man couldn't even form words. The sound escaped as a weak sibilance from his lips.

 

Narial's mind was agitated. He was less bothered by the pain and weakness than by the overpowering memory of a daedric body weighing him down, a mace embedded in his cuirass and padding and flesh as he struggled to free himself from under a dremora in heavy armor. His heart jumped and paused for a frighteningly long time before it started up its juddering complaint again.

 

“ It's all right,” Saraven told him, gently surrounding his mind with calm, muting the pain in his throat and the pounding headache from blood loss. “I have you.”

 

Narial gave in with relief, his body relaxing as he gave up the fight for wakefulness. His eyes rolled up for a second and then shut. His heart was so weak, soft as the flutter of a blackbird's wing near Saraven's ear, but his ragged breathing grew calmer.

 

Would Zudarra be able to walk out? He had not had time to wait and see how badly off she still was. He dared not leave his thrall. He had already broken his promise.

 

He could not break his promise to her as well.

 

“ All right,” he said quietly. “We're going for a walk.” He braced one foot against the Imperial's boot, then hauled the limp body over his shoulders. He could grasp Narial's ankle and wrist together with one hand, leaving one hand free for the door.

 

He was glad Narial was unaware of the stench as he carried him inside, awkwardly turning to keep from smacking the man's head into the doorway. He gritted his teeth again: Narial's puncture wounds were directly next to his mouth and nose, a persistent torment. When they were past the side-passage where the bodies were he paused, raising his voice.

 

“ Zudarra!” He sounded like he'd been eating gravel, but he was coherent. That was a small victory. “You hear me?”

 

“ I'm fine,” she called irritably. She came out of the darkness a second later, some of the warped scales of her armor clacking dully as she ran. Zudarra was a little pissed about that – her beautiful new armor was covered in dents and scrapes now. The gambeson was ripped at the elbow.

 

Pain shot up from her left foot every time she put weight on it but Zudarra grit her teeth and bore it, trying to walk normally when she came into Saraven's line of sight.

 

“ Is'e dead?” she blurted, stopping suddenly with a hand over her muzzle in response to the corpses. She couldn't immediately tell if the Imperial was alive or not, the air so filled with death, and the idea that Narial might have died was an unexpected jolt.

 

“ Close,” Saraven said. “I left him alone. I shoud've thought of it before we ever went in. Can't let them past me. Can't leave a thrall alone even in daylight.” He looked her over critically. She was probably in pain, but she was walking. He turned to haul the Imperial back up-slope to the door, grunting as a foot bounced against his ribs. Zudarra followed him up.

 

“ If I hadn't been an arrogant fool it would have worked out. I could have healed just you, you could've carried me back up, and then Narial would have mended me.”

 

It could have been worse. It was going to be a painful ride back to town for everyone but Narial, but they would live.

 

_ No thanks to you, Saraven Gol. _

 

Zudarra looked quizzically at his back, the expression half-hidden beneath her helm and the palm cupped over her nose. That was a thing about Saraven she had almost forgotten: he always had to bear his imagined burdens. Even problems he'd had no part in making were his job to fix. Sure, he had to assume some responsibility for his thrall... but it was a mistake anyone could have made, combined with a bit of bad luck. She said nothing as they stepped into the light.

 

Saraven laid Narial over Cassy's saddle as gently as possible, resting a hand on his head as the man groaned. He quashed another nearly lucid nightmare. Cassy leaned her head back to nuzzle the Imperial's hair. 

 

Zudarra paused briefly behind him,  raising a hand to lay on the Dunmer's shoulder, but she visibly cringed at the absolute sappiness of such a gesture and continued walking toward Shadow without touchi ng him. 

 

Warmth. Warmth near his pauldron, tiny draft of moving air past his neck. Zudarra was walking past him over to her horse when Saraven looked up. Had she really almost touched him of her own accord? Saraven frowned at her back. She must be hurt more severely than he had thought. 

 

Shadow seemed agitated. Zudarra looked around the area briefly while giving him a quick pat on the nose, his giant nostrils blowing hot air into her palm. She didn't bother asking what became of the vampire; obviously it had got away. Zudarra supposed she'd be listening to Saraven bemoan that as well. She balked before mounting up and discreetly moved to Shadow's other side to step up with her right foot instead.  Saraven watched her covertly. Leg? Foot?

 

He mounted up himself, speaking to Ves in Dunmeris, and took up Cassy's reins to lead the horse back toward the road, keeping an eye on Narial to make sure he wasn't sliding off even as he tried to keep an eye on Zudarra to make sure she wasn't about to suddenly collapse from hidden injuries.

 

She didn't say anything else as they turned their horses around, heading back down the sloping grassland to the road. That had been bad and they both knew it. Zudarra was completely unprepared for even the stupidest of vampires and Saraven had not fared much better... alone, he might've died. It was humbling in a very sour way.

 

Saraven was opening his mouth to tell Zudarra that the vampire had escaped when she suddenly turned to look over her shoulder and spoke,  as if they'd been discussing it all along, one corner of her lip raised in a smile.   

 

“ But did you get to see the look on that asshole's face when that big iron.. cagey thing fell on his head?” 

 

His gray lips twitched for a second.

 

"Yes. Yes I did. I think he was offended."

 

She barked a sharp laugh and turned her attention forward again. They were alive, they were victorious, that was all that really mattered. She would brood on feelings of inadequacy later. She took off her helm and sat it on the saddle horn as they rode, to let her moist, grimy fur air out and to wipe away dust that had worked its way in through the eye holes.

 

As they approached the main gate, Zudarra said, “Saraven? Maybe don't mention that one of them got away. If I'm only getting a third of the cut I'd like it to not be reduced even further.” She didn't say it meanly, but in her usual sardonic way.

 

"I don't plan to," he said. "She probably won't come back to that same lair, so it's not relevant to the job. Much more likely she'll come after you and me." His tone was very dry. "We killed her sire. Even if she doesn't want revenge, she'll want to perform some kind of gesture of dominance. They need to know that they're better."

 

He did not share any of his own sensations on being confronted with the other vampire feeding on his thrall. He would just as soon the Khajiit forget that he was capable of feeling any of that. There had been some push and pull after he was turned, when they were both vampires and he struggled between a desire to serve the stronger and a desire to defeat her and show his own strength. They had got through that. They would get through this.

 

The ostler noticed them riding up, came out to hold open the gate and to take care of unsaddling the horses. Zudarra thought of the way Saraven had carried Narial back in the cave – it was actually kind of amusing to see the smaller Dunmer pick up a large, fully armored man like a child. Most anyone but a vampire would be staggering under the weight if they could even do it at all.

 

She cleared her throat uncomfortably after she had dropped down from her horse, careful to take all her weight on the right foot before shifting her weight across them both. Her tail waggled uncertainly.

 

“ Do you want me to carry him, Saraven? I mean, I'm assuming you have a certain.. image you'd prefer to maintain.”

 

Saraven grunted unhappily as he swung down. His chest hurt a little still, but that didn't seem important, as badly off as the other two obviously were. He had seen her dismount oddly, keeping weight off her left foot.

 

"I do, but it's still easier for me. You hold his shoulders and we'll put his knees over mine?" He pressed a coin into the ostler's free hand as he spoke. "It's maybe a quarter mile to the Chapel."

 

That would let her shift most of the weight onto him without it being obvious. He didn't like letting her do it at all, but damn it, she was right. He looked too physically small to easily carry Narial.

 

Zudarra nodded and replaced her helm as she was about to be without a free hand to carry it. Then she helped Saraven gather the man from his horse and they trudged off to the chapel, curtly fielding a query from the guard without stopping: “He's alive, just needs a healer.”

 

She saw stars with every step and moved a little stiffly, but Zudarra didn't complain, didn't ask for a rest. She was not as weak as Saraven seemed to think she was, even if she felt like it, but that was because she'd grown so accustomed to a different body. She looked down at the top of Narial's head, which was braced against her chest, thinking about how kindly and gently Saraven acted to his thralls... She'd never watched him feed on this one, obviously, but the way he had held Brithe had been like a lover. Zudarra's eyebrow twitched under the helm.

 

As they came up the steps to the Chapel of Akatosh, Zudarra noted deep scars cut into the square tiles of the sidewalk. Some of the slabs had been broken and removed completely and the steps were chipped. The highest of the windows of the chapel had been smashed when the tall spire snapped, and the glass had been cleaned up leaving empty stone frames behind. A kind citizen who happened to be walking by scrambled over to hold the door for them.

 

Saraven thanked the helpful man at the door gruffly as they passed. He felt tired, but not in any way that made him foggy. He had noticed that didn't seem to easily happen now. Maybe it was a condition of undeath, some way that the brain or the tethered soul or both interacted with the body. He could hear Zudarra's heart laboring more than it ought for the work they were doing and knew she must be suffering. He took as much of the weight as he could.

 

The light dimmed as they stepped inside, the interior cool and shielded from the heat of the sun.  Boards had been laid over the huge hole in the ceiling and some black cloth was draped over it to prevent rain leaking in. The cloth sagged down through the gaps.  Late afternoon sunlight filtered through stained glass windows, painting the columns , the floor, the altar with patches of glowing color. There were not many people inside, just a few praying quietly by themselves in a pew here and there. Some turned to look at the noise as Zudarra and Saraven gently maneuvered their passenger onto a pew.  She sighed deeply when the weight was out of her arms and the dull ache of exertion in those muscles started to fade.

 

A painting of Martin was actually resting on a short easel beside the altar. Fresh flowers and shiny little trinkets crowded the altar, were heaped on the floor by the picture.  _ That's right, _ Zudarra remembered.  _ Martin was a priest in this same chapel. _ Directly behind that the stained glass mural of Akatosh cast irregular teal and gold blobs of light on the stone floor. It was quite pretty and the somber silence that filled the high vaulted chamber lent gravity to the atmosphere.

 

The Imperial groaned as the torchlight played over his face, trying to turn his head away from it. Saraven felt the man's headache returning as he struggled toward awareness. He soothed it away silently as he straightened, gritting his teeth as something shifted and ground behind his chainmail. An Altmer in a brown robe was moving toward them. He had dark hair cut very short and a scar along the left side of his neck, long and straight as from a sharp weapon. His eyes were deep-set and narrow and almost as dark as his hair, nearly black.

 

"Welcome to the Temple of Akatosh. What is wrong?" He had the same sort of mid-range tenor voice possessed by many Altmer, though his accent was more local.

 

"He was attacked by a vampire," Saraven said. "He needs healing and a cure, please. My comrade-in-arms is also wounded, but I don't believe she was bitten."

 

The Altmer looked to Zudarra for confirmation, eyes flickering up and down the big Cathay-raht.

 

“ Not bitten. Just a few bones that might be cracked.”

 

"Very well." The mer moved forward to kneel beside the pew, reaching out a hand to the Imperial's shoulder. He shut his eyes for a second. The light was almost blinding, a brighter, denser spiral than the weak light of Saraven's healing spell. The vampire instinctively looked away, half-expecting it to burn his flesh, but it did not.

 

Narial shuddered as the punctures on his neck blended away. Color flooded back into his lips and cheeks. The spell was so powerful it even seemed able to cure some of the loss of blood. Saraven felt him surfacing toward consciousness, fighting away unwanted images, things intervening between him and the light. He edged over behind the priest, that he might be in view when the Imperial opened his eyes.

 

The Altmer stood up and held out a hand toward Zudarra slowly, reaching for her forearm: his touch was light and very warm as he cast the spell again. It was a powerful wash of magicka, almost a different sensation from healing by a lesser spell as it seemed to enter every pore and erase every tiniest mark, every smallest discomfort. As the subject of the spell the light was even brighter.

 

Zudarra stifled a pleasured sigh. She still felt too heavy, too sluggish, but the absence of pain made it all better briefly. Very briefly. She was also hungry and a bit tired. She enjoyed sleep when it was restful, but it rarely was, and the rest of the time she found it a major inconvenience.

 

“ Thank you,” Zudarra said, and she rummaged around in her bag, pulling out a couple of damp coins to hold out to the Altmer. The broken glass clinked when she did.

 

The Altmer accepted the coins with a polite inclination of his head. Saraven eyed Zudarra suspiciously. Why was she carrying that many vials?

 

"Blessings of Akatosh. A moment while I heal the other gentleman."

 

"Oh, I'm not -" Saraven broke off, blinded by the light. When it cleared he could hear the elf saying to Zudarra,

 

"Broken ribs are very dangerous to ignore, you know." The Altmer was helping Narial to sit up. "They can puncture a lung. See that all of you drink much and rest well ere you attempt combat again."

 

"Thank you," Saraven said, a little sheepishly. He was certain he had not been favoring that side. He wasn't sure how the mer had known. "Here, boy. Let's go back to the Guildhouse." He nudged his shoulder under the Imperial's to help him rise. Narial would lean on him all the way back to the Guild, too woozy and confused to ask questions but able to walk with a little help. Saraven tried to find a balance between helping him to feel calmer and stunning him out of being able to think. It was not very easy to do. Things had been easier with Brithe, but he didn't feel it was right to keep the man in a complete fog all of the time.

 

The Bosmer woman was at the desk again. She looked up as they came in, startled.

 

"Dibella's Tits, you came back. Did you actually kill any vampires?"

 

“ Six... seven of them I think,” Zudarra said, expecting Saraven to want to head straight into the barracks to put Narial to bed. She shrugged. “Who cares, it was a lot. Maybe we shouldn't have got Narial healed. He had bite marks to prove it.” 

 

Saraven was indeed already halfway through the door. "Send someone to check," he said over his shoulder, adding under his breath, "Who cares, it was a lot. Good thing you got someone else to write your biography."

 

The Bosmer got up and went to lean into the hall. "Hey, One-Raised-Fist! We need somebody to go verify a guild job!"

 

Delrian  Thomas looked up, startled, as Saraven doggedly forged past with Narial's arm drawn across his shoulder.

 

"Oh, I say," he said. "Back already?"

 

"Yessir," Saraven grunted, without slowing down. A moment later he had vanished up the stairs. Delrian stared after him, rapier in one hand, cloth in the other. Two more such weapons with differently decorated hilts were laid out beside him. He was dressed in mithral chain today, a sullen glitter in the warm light of the sconces.

 

Saraven helped Narial armor down and undress most of the way, then let him alone a few minutes to wash up, waiting on the edge of a bed with one knee up and his arm resting on it. The area where the basin with the drain was stood behind a curtain. There was a small bath house out back of the building, but Saraven judged it would take too long and too much effort to get him there and back.

 

Downstairs, Zudarra sauntered over to the desk and leaned her palms on it. “So what do you have to do to join up here?”

 

She didn't particularly like the idea of joining the Guild... having to pay dues just to have some nitwit order her around. But every time she stepped into the Fighter's Guild they rallied around like termites in a hive invaded.  Okay, so perhaps it wasn't quite like that, but it's what Zudarra imagined every time the glorified doorkeeper went to fetch Saraven rather than just letting her go in herself.

 

And if she was going to be on the road a lot, inns did get expensive.

 

"You have to talk to Delrian Thomas," the Bosmer said, eyeing her warily. "He's the head of this chapter. I think he's in the main room polishing his rapiers at the moment.”

 

Zudarra grunted.

 

“ I don't just sign a form or something? Oh, fine.” She followed where Saraven had gone, guessing the Breton with the rapier in hand was one Delrian Thomas. She lifted the helm from her head again, tucking it under one arm and cleared her throat.

 

“ Delrian Thomas? The name's Zudarra, I just rode in with Saraven after finishing the vampire job. I'd like to ask about joining the Guild.” She sounded rather flippant, but she watched his face for any trace of recognition at hearing her name.

 

He raised pale eyebrows as he reached for another rapier. "You don't say? Copies of that book have been circulating about here a great deal lately. Creative fellows, writers.” Zudarra narrowed her eyes slightly at the implication that she wasn’t the hero her biography purported her to be. “In any case, if you've succeeded in killing any vampires at all you're certainly welcome. You'll have to start at apprentice just like anyone else, mind you."

 

“ I understand,” she said. She assumed higher ranks got better paying contracts, but it didn't matter if she was tagging along with Saraven. She still thought it was stupid. Ascending ranks made sense in the arena, but not here. If someone wanted to take a difficult job and get themselves killed they ought to be able to. Wiping the idiots from the mating pool was never a bad thing.

 

“ So that's it? I'm in?”

 

"Yes, yes. Go have Dariene sign your name in the register. Bunk where you like, eat what you find, liquor is first come, first served." He waved her off, returning to his present work.

 

"DONE," said Dariene from the front desk.

 

“ Thank you,” Zudarra called out to the wood elf, nodded to Delrian, and went grinning into the barracks. There was hardly anyone else inside at this time of day, just a Nord woman sleeping in a bed by the door. Zudarra walked past and plopped down on the bed beside Saraven's, tossing her helm down on the coverlet. She sat bracing her hands on her spread knees, elbows turned out. Her tail curled around on the bed behind her, touching her thigh.

 

“ How do you do, Guildmate?” she said, still grinning idiotically. “What's that stupid salute you guys do?”

 

Saraven rolled his eyes at her, exposing a lot of red sclera, and tapped his fist against his chest. "Try and remember it. If you don't return it you won't be thrown out immediately, but you might start a fight.”

 

Zudarra laughed almost hysterically at that. She didn't know why, but she was in such a good mood despite the altogether horrible day they'd had.

 

It felt very good to be near him again, for reasons she could not attempt to understand.

 

He listened to her laugh with pursed lips, resisting the urge to laugh in turn. It shouldn't be funny. He didn't want to have to beat down some hapless Nord or Orc who took it as an insult that Zudarra didn't salute them back.

 

“ Yeah, I'm not doing that,” she said. She understood that groups like this had their own culture – hell, there was tons of bullshit you had to put up with in the arena – but she was just here for easy gold and Saraven, not to bond with other members.

 

“What were you doing with all those bottles, anyway?” he asked. “Is that how you ran that fast earlier?" It was a Zudarra-like level of subtlety. Perhaps he was tireder than he had realized.

 

Her ears straightened and she looked at him somewhat seriously. She didn't like that he knew about it, but moving at super-mortal speed was obviously not something she could hide in the middle of a fight. It was irritating that he brought it up, like he had to throw it in her face that she wasn't as good as him.

 

She shrugged.

 

“ What do you think, Saraven? You might be dead right now if I hadn't used it.”

 

"Yes, I would," he said patiently. There were so many ways in which she had never changed from the first moment he met her. "No one's saying you didn't pull your weight. I just don't want you getting too used to something you can't do forever. Some potions can be hard to give up once you've started."

 

“ What are you, my mother?” Zudarra said impatiently, removing her hands from her knees and leaning back a bit. The tip of her tail thumped rapidly against her leg. She was trying to restrain herself from snapping at him, keeping her voice level enough. “It's not like I'm guzzling skooma, Saraven. I used one potion, once, when I needed it.”

 

A lie. She had used two, but he didn't know that.

 

"You're a grown Khajiit," he said, throwing up an exasperated hand. He did not realize it was a gesture of greater energy than he would have bothered attempting a year ago. "You do as you see fit." He knew she would lie without compunction if she felt even a little defensive, so there was no point in arguing with her past a certain point.

 

Behind her, Narial emerged from behind the curtain to make his slow way back toward the bed. Saraven got up to move out of the way, tugging the covers down to admit him. Narial looked blankly at the actual sheets for a moment, one hand rising to unconsciously rub the pinkish scar over his heart. He'd been sleeping on top of the coverlet every night since they met. After a moment he seemed to register Zudarra. He nodded politely.

 

"Ma'am." Then he slumped into bed and let Saraven haul the covers up around him. He freed one hand, holding it out toward the vampire, but Saraven closed his fist around it and pushed it firmly back onto his chest.

 

"Not yet." He felt the thirst – would always feel the thirst – but he had been so distracted worrying about the other two that he had not been disturbed by the constant scent-memory of daedric blood that hovered about Kvatch's streets.

 

_ Hmm. It's probably going to be a few days before Saraven can feed from this thrall again. _ She hadn't really thought of that until Narial offered his arm, and now she glanced back at Saraven's face with a bit of worry. Well, he'd be fine. He just might feel shitty for a while and have to keep away from the windows. Then again, there were other people in the Guild.

 

She glanced around, finding the Nord still asleep, and turned back to him.

 

“ So how many of these schmucks have you... you know?” She pantomimed drinking from a glass.

 

Saraven stared at her blankly. "None."

 

“ What are you going to do, then?” she asked, not unkindly. She thought about adding  _ if you feed on him now he'd die _ but that was stating the obvious.

 

It felt surreal to be discussing this. Zudarra felt a little twitch of grief, a part of her wishing they had never switched places. Not because she wanted to experience the pain of thirst again, but because she (perhaps erroneously) believed she was better suited to bear it than he was.

 

"I'll find someone who agrees to it and then steal their memory of it, probably," he said. "There's always someone if you look. Drunks and beggars, at the very least. With a little more time I can find someone who will accept it gladly, but who is not strong enough to travel with me, or who would rather stay in a familiar place. There are many since that day."

 

Some people would give it the more formal title and say  _ since the Fall of Dagon _ . That was the name of the song that was now sung. To Saraven it would always just be _ that day.  _ He was not the only one. If he said it he was always understood.

 

Narial was listening to them, blinking slowly.

 

"It hurt," he said suddenly. Saraven turned to look down at him. "With her it hurt."

 

"I don't let it," Saraven said. "The same way that I make the other things go away."

 

Narial nodded and finally shut his eyes, exhaling. The damaged heart flapped and fluttered its way to a slower pace as Saraven listened. It seemed louder, somehow.

 

Zudarra didn't quite frown, but she looked unhappy, a little somber. She stood, picked her helm up off the bed.

 

“ Well, I'm not staying the night,” she said. “I only came in to tell you I'd joined up. My things are at the inn and I may as well get one more night on a decent bed before I come back. I'll be by in the morning. See you, Saraven.”

 

"See you," he replied. 

 

She went out in a subdued mood, thinking of noble Saraven feeding on beggars. The wood elf at the desk said good-bye in a chipper voice and Zudarra waved absently. She paused on the front stoop as the door shut behind her to breath in the crisp air of early evening and look up at the pink clouds streaking behind tall buildings. Then she set off down the street in the opposite direction from the inn, strolling casually with her helm under her arm while keeping an eye out for the shop sign of an alchemist.

 

When she found one Zudarra bought more potions, shaking out the broken glass into the shopkeeper's garbage bin. The prices were exorbitant, probably due to a lack of competition.

 

She felt very detached from what she was doing, as if she had no plans to drink these. But the truth was that she felt slightly irritable and anxious, as if wanting something just out of reach, and knew in the back of her mind it wasn't going to be long before she caved and started drinking these outside of battle. It was just too intoxicating, and too painful to return to how she was, knowing that all her successes in the Deadlands had nothing to do with Zudarra the Bloody and everything to do with Zudarra the Vampire.

 

She kept walking. She bought a lamb skewer from a street vendor. It was old and kind of dry but it reminded her how starved she was. She went back and bought two more. She kept going, throwing the sticks into the street when she was finished with them, but keeping the last to chew on and pick her teeth.

 

At the end of the walk she was standing in front of a mountain of rubble that had once been the Kvatch arena. It looked like some of the stone had been carted away, either in an effort to find survivors or to be reused in new buildings, she didn't know. She wondered what happened to Vandalion's body, if it had been burned or buried in a mass grave or what. She wondered if anyone in the Imperial City was missing him at all.

 

“ Were you there on that day?” a throaty female voice asked from behind. Zudarra twitched and looked over her shoulder at an Argonian standing with her hands on her elbows. Her scales were a dull olive and a row of tiny horns lined either side of her head. Based on her dusty trousers she'd been working some sort of dirty job, maybe cleaning debris. Zudarra realized she had been standing there staring at the rubble for a few minutes, skewer still in one hand.

 

“ No,” Zudarra said. She flicked the stick away at the remains and turned to walk back up the way she had come. The Argonian followed the Khajiit with her eyes and then her swiveling head but said nothing more.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains explicit content. (MxF sex.)

 

It wasn't his way to rail at pity, though it was bad enough to be seeing it from Zudarra. Saraven sat for a while on the edge of the bed, hands clasped, listening to Narial's regular breathing.

 

It was easy enough to say that he was doing Narial a favor, that the man's mind was broken anyway and at least someone was making sure he ate and rested. That was certainly the justification he had used with Brithe. Neither of them would have lived another month on their own.

 

_ But I do it in exchange for the blood from their veins. This is like saying that raising domestic cattle is doing the cattle a favor. They may live longer than wild cows, but in the end they have no say. _

 

Narial might be better off than he would be alone, but he wasn't better off than he would be if he had been with someone who actually cared about him rather than using him as a larder. A wife. A father and mother. A brother or sister. Someone.

 

Someone was coming up the stairs, the sound of footsteps becoming distinct from the clang of blades in the practice area below. Strong heart, not as strong as Zudarra's. It turned out to be Delrian Thomas. The Breton was carrying a sack. Saraven stood up as he approached.

 

"One-Raised-Fist is back from the ruin," Thomas said. "Ashes everywhere. We've had people try to fake that, but you can't fool that woman's nose. Apparently vampires have a smell. Here's your fee. You'll have to split it out yourselves."

 

"Thank you, Sir," Saraven said. He accepted the sack politely, not touching the Breton's fingers. It didn't do to have people thinking too hard about his cold hands. It would also not do to stand too close to One-Raised-Fist, apparently. He filed that for future reference.

 

Thomas nodded, turning to look at the Imperial in the bed. He had not awakened at the sound of voices. At the moment his face was slack, peaceful. Saraven would not let the nightmares become paramount, and sometimes he would dream other dreams; the vampire tried not to listen closely to those, to let him have at least that much privacy in his own mind.

 

"How's he doing?" Thomas asked, moderating his strident voice somewhat belatedly.

 

"He'll mend," Saraven said, tapping the sack against his thigh. It clinked invitingly. "He lost some blood. He's seen much worse than he did today, poor bastard."

 

"That's quite a scar," Thomas said. The upper edge of it was visible above the coverlet.

 

"He was in the City on that day," Saraven said.

 

"So were you, from what I hear."

 

"Oh, sure," Saraven said. He shrugged. "But I was already - " Old, accustomed to horrors. It was easy to forget that his current appearance ranged from "early forties" to "early fifties, recently dead."

 

"I was with Zudarra," he said instead. "He lost his entire guard unit. We met later."

 

"Poor fellow," Thomas said, with a germ of real sympathy. "So some of that is actually true? The things she did?"

 

"Some of it is," Saraven said. "She didn't challenge Dagon to single combat, hopefully nobody really believes that, but she did rally the prisoners from the Skingrad gate and she did kill many dremora in battle. And the gates that the book says she closed, she did close. I have seen her knock down a sigil stone with her bare hands. I would have her at my side rather than half a dozen."

 

"You don't find her a bit difficult?" Thomas said, folding his arms. Saraven laughed a little, keeping his mouth shut.

 

"Sometimes I find her impossible. But there is no one better at what she does, and when she chooses to be a friend there is no one more loyal. She's not a person to do anything by halves."

 

Thomas smiled a little sadly. "Ah. Well, we've all had a friend like that, I think. Come find me when you're ready to go again."

 

Saraven saluted him. Thomas returned the gesture and turned to go briskly back downstairs.

 

He needed to find blood before Zudarra came back. That meant he would have to leave Narial alone in the Guildhouse. Without him present the Imperial would not sleep as deeply or as long. On the other hand, he was probably safe in here. The room was seldom empty enough for someone to...

 

For someone to get away with doing exactly what he had done unobserved on the night they met, and almost every night since. No vampire had ever attacked Saraven inside the Guild, but that didn't mean none would try it. The woman in black was still out there somewhere, and she had fed enough to walk in daylight for one more day.

 

Saraven shoved the money into the chest at the end of the bed, where he'd put Narial's things, and paced to and fro in the aisle beyond it, frowning. He might have to risk asking someone in here. He hated to do that -

 

The sound of blades had died down from downstairs, and more footsteps were coming up, voices cheerfully bantering. He heard three beating hearts.

 

"You're too slow, Valdi, that's your problem," said a youngish alto, and a Dunmer woman in tan leathers stepped up into the living quarters. She had the same sort of lean and hard look that a lot of Fighters Guild women had. "I could run around you three times while you're looking for your axe."

 

"But the small one must lucky every time," said a burly Nord, following her up. He was wearing mail, coif hanging behind his head. "The big one has to be lucky only once."

 

"Says the big one," said a Khajiit. He was a wiry fellow, a brown tabby with a sleek face and no mane, none of the big side-whiskers some members of that species had. There were bare patches on his knuckles, and he was dressed in loose linen with a leather vest. "Who will come and break bread with K'dallo?"

 

"Not me, I'm not hungry. Go feed the Nord."

 

The two men laughed and moved on through the archway at the side and into the room where the pantry and tables were. The woman came to one of the beds and opened a chest to dig through it for fresh linens, glancing up as she felt eyes on her. She jerked her chin up at Saraven and greeted him in Dunmeris. He replied shortly in the same tongue, looking away, but he was aware of her scrutiny as he continued his pacing. There were shuffling noises as she changed her clothes, and presently he heard heart and footsteps approaching.

 

He looked up to see her regarding him with hands on her hips. She had dark red hair tied back in a sloppy knot at the base of her head, and her face was reasonably pretty, skin worn by the outdoors but features symmetrical. She had fine full lips. She wore loose linen trousers low on her hips and a blouse left unlaced to almost the navel, though her breasts were small enough that little was revealed by it except a small scar on her belly.

 

"Who wears a hood indoors?" she said. "Something wrong with your face?"

 

"Just ugly," Saraven said dryly. He pushed the hood back, revealing his short, stiff white hair and the wings of the dragon on his face. The collar of his mail shirt mostly hid the layered scars of many, many bites.

 

"I've seen worse." She moved closer, glancing at the sleeping Imperial. "Is he your man?"

 

"No," Saraven said. "We ride out together."

 

"You want to do some riding in here?"

 

Saraven lofted a white eyebrow. "I'm not sure there's any... point... in trying it," he said. He had not attempted anything more carnal than the drinking of blood since he was changed, and before that he had needed a good run-up in order to attempt it. Foreplay could cover a multitude of sins.

 

"Well, maybe I can find a point," she said, stepping forward and reaching for his mail tunic. He let her, looking downward as she reached for his pants in a firm cupping motion. He was aware of pressure, just as he had always been, but now he was also aware that he was very much in control of how the blood circulated through his body. If he wished it to go a certain way...

 

Saraven found himself mildly surprised. "Looks like you have," he said. "Wall or bed?"

 

"You think you can hold me up?" she said. "Don't be stupid now, I hate being dropped."

 

"Won't be a problem," Saraven said. He stripped off the mail tunic and began to untie the fly of his pants as they both moved toward the wall at the end of the row.

 

It was very much not a problem. She stepped out of her pants and moved in front of him, ducking under his arm with a hard, bright smile. He tried her with his fingers first, leaning against the wall, testing for combat reflexes that might prove inconvenient later, for her willingness to accept his cold touch. She responded readily enough, pushing his hand insistently around to where she wanted it, and his fingers were warmed by her flesh, enough that she never really complained. After a couple of minutes she pushed her pelvis against the bulge in his pants. "Up," she demanded. "Now."

 

She seemed to weigh almost nothing as he lifted her against the wall, arms under her thighs. She maneuvered him in with ease, legs wrapped around his waist.

 

"Ah, mn. You're a cold one," she said. "Been to the wars too many times?" Poor circulation was not an uncommon result of combat injuries, although no erection was a much more likely result than a cold one. Probably she had not thought that through. He didn't intend to encourage it.

 

"A few," Saraven said.

 

He was pleased to learn that a lifetime of discipline had not abandoned him, though the rhythm of thrusting gave him less pleasure than it had before he was changed. As before, he gradually soaked up heat from her body. When they had been at it for a few minutes – she wasn't too loud, that was good – he said,

 

"I can make it better."

 

"Oh really?" She panted in his ear, arms around his neck.

 

"Do you trust me?"

 

"No," she laughed. "What are you going to do?"

 

"Mind tricks," he said. "And some biting."

 

"Oh, so you're (oof) a wizard? Let's see it."

 

He stopped thrusting suddenly, pinning her hard between himself and the wall, and listened to her gasp as the pressure hit. At the same time he reached out, listening to her sensations, and amplified here and here and pushed away pain here, and then he stooped to lay his teeth against her neck, arms still holding her thighs. He ground forward with his hips, carefully, and then his fangs sank into her flesh and blood exploded into his mouth with a rush of pleasure that far surpassed anything they had yet done. He fed it all back to her, mind to mind. He was distantly aware that he was in fact ejaculating, back arched slightly as he continued to push forward, hips shuddering against hers. That was a lesser climax than this. He was still in control. More so than she was, definitely. He felt her clutch convulsively at him, eyes wide and mad as she shook, the contractions uncontrollable. It went on for long seconds after he hit the ten count and pulled his teeth away, licking at the little punctures. She mewled in his ear like a wounded lion, still coming even when he had gradually gone soft inside her. When he thought she had had enough he withdrew from her mind, gently erasing the suggestion that he had been there.

 

"You like that?" he whispered in her ear.

 

"Gods," she managed after a second, gasping for breath. "You're not even breathing hard."

 

Saraven was reminded that he should be breathing at all. He made sure that she felt him inhale and exhale as he laughed. He pulled out carefully and set her on her feet, pulling up his trousers.

 

"You might want a heal," he said. "I was not joking about the bites."

 

"Mwaa," she said. The spell that spiraled up around her as she staggered toward her pants was a weak one, but it would take care of the little holes. He watched her take two tries to get her legs into the holes and then wobble off downstairs, presumably to the bath house.

 

It appeared that Narial had not woken up through any of it. Saraven went to the curtained wash area with his own trousers, mood significantly improved. The combined afterglow was something yet again, filling him with a sensation of relaxed warmth and well-being that he did not remember feeling since he was changed. He shoved his mail into the chest and lay on his back on the bed next to Narial's, arms behind his head.

 

The other Dunmer came back after a while to flop down on her own bunk, sighing.

 

"Well, so much for whatever else I was going to do today. What's your name, anyway?"

 

"Saraven Gol."

 

She rolled her eyes at him. "And I'm Saint Nerevar. Pleased to meet you."

 

"My name really is Saraven," he said mildly. "Just because authors are liars doesn't make it not my name."

 

"Well, I'm Arade Zelaharasht. Pleased."

 

He grunted in return, smothering the urge to yawn after she yawned. He had done well so far. She need not see his teeth.

 

"You're not much of a talker," she said.

 

"Go to sleep, Arade."

 

She laughed and rolled onto her side. He heard her get up and leave very early in the morning.

 

* * *

 

It was a few hours past dawn when Zudarra arrived at the Fighter's Guild, her bags over her shoulders. She was dressed in the same casual clothes Saraven had seen her in first. She'd spent a few hours the night before hammering out some of the dents in the armor pieces before cleaning and waxing them, but having a smith go over it was still something she intended to have done in the future.

 

As soon as she stepped inside she could clearly smell that someone was having breakfast and could hear multiple voices from the direction of a probable dining room, but she doubted she'd find Saraven there. The same Argonian from yesterday was on desk duty.

 

“ Zudarra. I'm on the roster,” she said, waving her fingers with her hand still on the strap of her bag. She went by without stopping for a reply, passing through the practice room and into the barracks to see if he was with Narial.

 

Narial had woke at around sunrise. He seemed a little better, weak but able to walk about on his own without staggering. Saraven bustled him in to the dining area to eat, posting him at a table next to a quiet Argonian with tan and orange scales who was busy reading a book on archery. She gave Saraven an odd look, crest lifting and lowering, but he didn't stay to see why. He left the Imperial eating toast with cheese and a pile of fruit and a very stale sweetroll and went back to pull out his mail and look for links that might need pinching back together. That was where Zudarra found him, seated on the bed unhooded in his linen shirt and trousers, sunlight from the window gleaming brightly on his white stubble of hair. A fat sack sat on the bed next to him. He glanced up as he heard the familiar pulse.

 

Zudarra smiled when she saw Saraven. She smiled even wider when she saw the bag of coin and came in, slinging her bags down on the bed beside his.

 

“ That's not too shabby, even split three ways. How much?” She snatched up the bag and weighed it on her palm. Then she paused, her chin dropping, nose wrinkling slightly as her tongue curled in her mouth.

 

Like the arena bloodworks, the Fighter's Guild barracks were always a little rank with body odors belonging to a plethora of races all mixed together, and sometimes sex or straight up filth from those who did not see bathing as a priority. Now she could smell recent sex and suddenly realized the source of it was Saraven. She had been a Dunmer.

 

A sequence of things happened inside Zudarra very rapidly. First she felt a stabbing pain in her chest. Then she felt irrationally angry. The anger she crushed beneath a firm fist, remembering that Saraven had to feed and his thrall had not been available. Then she realized she was trying to justify behavior of his that was none of her business to begin with. Her brow tightened into an almost-scowl as she shut her mouth, but Zudarra smoothed out her face until it was neutral. The change in her expression had been extremely brief, but she tossed the bag back onto the bed as if it had offended her.

 

"Three thousand," he said, looking up at her sideways. He wanted to enjoy this moment, a rare instance of Zudarra being pleased when he was also pleased; so he also saw her face change rapidly. Twice.

 

Damn, damn, damn. He'd forgotten how sensitive her nose still was. He should've washed more thoroughly and now she was going to be jealous again. There had never been anything sexual between them; he did not consider her an object for those lusts any more than he did his lust for blood. But if she was going to be verbally nasty over his paying attention to a thrall gods only knew what she would do to a woman he'd slept with. Probably it was as well that Arade was gone.

 

"It didn't mean anything, you know," he said calmly, taking up the bag to start counting out shares. "Not to me or to her. She was interested and I was thirsty, and this way I didn't have to leave the building."

 

He thought about adding _ it could just as well have been a man, or a human  _ but he thought that probably wouldn't help.

 

Her tail suddenly began to lash behind her.

 

“ I didn't even say anything, Saraven. I don't care,” she snipped. She was still standing in front of him and now her hands moved to her hips.

 

_ What if it did mean something? Is Saraven not allowed to be friends with anyone else? Does he have to be celibate for the rest of his life? Why can't you get a handle on yourself, for fuck's sake? _

 

"All right," he said. He went on dividing the gold into three stacks.

 

She didn't really have anyone else, that was the trouble.

 

It wasn't as though  _ he _ had anyone else. Not really. He just had a lot of other people that passed in and out of his life on a regular basis, like ships by a lighthouse.

 

"Thomas said he's got something else for us when Narial's better. If you're interested."

 

“ Yeah, sure.” She was still speaking curtly. “I'm going to get some food.” She turned away and followed her nose into the dining room through the arched entry. She had already eaten breakfast at the inn. It was more of an excuse to get away from Saraven and his stink. She saw a few familiar faces and lots of strange ones, some of which glanced up in mild interest while many did not. Probably they were used to strangers from other Guilds coming and going constantly.

 

She opened a pantry cupboard and stared at the various cloth sacks and lidded crockery for several long moments, thinking about all the times she'd lured in a fan of hers with the promise of sex when she really meant to feed from them. She never actually did have sex with them... she wiped their memory after drinking her fill and booted them out the door. You didn't just have sex because it was convenient. He had wanted to.

 

She sighed, grabbed the first thing in her line of sight which looked remotely edible – an old biscuit – and shut the door with her elbow as she turned around.

 

“ 'Morning, Narial,” she said.  The Imperial sat at a table just in front of her.

 

"Morning, Ma'am," he replied, stale sweetroll in hand. He had a huge transparent green glass about half-full of water. The brown tabby khajiit on his other side, head sleek, knuckles scarred, was chatting to him about something to which he might or might not be listening. On his other side there was an empty chair. On the Khajiit's other side was also an empty chair, then a stocky Argonian with a book. She was tan with orange streaks on her cheeks and arms and one spiny crest in the center of her skull, and her eyes were vividly yellow.

 

" - and thus one may slay even the wearer of a cuirass with one's fists. New friend has never encountered this?" the Khajiit was saying.

 

"No, I don't think so," Narial said.

 

Zudarra stood there for a moment, thinking of sitting next to Narial or of inserting herself into the conversation the Khajiit was trying to have. She didn't really meet many of her “own kind” in Cyrodiil and he seemed to like talking shop, which was one of the few types of conversations Zudarra could actually carry. She thought of announcing her name to the room just to see if they would fawn over her or ask her questions about the Deadlands. All of those options seemed exhausting in some way so she walked out with her stupid biscuit that she didn't want, through the exit on the other side of the room. This one lead to a short hall, and at the end of it she saw a door left ajar. She realized right away that this was the Guild Master's office, as Delrian's scent was dominant as she came near.

 

She rapped on the door, which in effect pushed it open further so that she could see he was at his desk looking down at some documents. There was a tall bookshelf behind him and various swords hanging on the walls, and more in display cases against the wall. She was mildly curious about those.

 

“ Master Thomas? I wanted to ask about a job,” she said from outside.

 

"Come in." He was out of armor, his visible upper half wearing a gray woolen tunic with the Fighters Guild emblem embroidered in crimson. He set down a parchment with a broken seal of red wax. "What sort of job are you looking for, Apprentice?"

 

“ Saraven said you had a job for him,” Zudarra said as she stepped inside. “I know you hand out assignments according to rank, but I'm going with him... and Narial.”

 

_ Riding the coattails of a thrall, _ she thought.

 

"Ah. I thought I had better have clarification." He picked up a stack of paper, flipped through it with a thumb, and came up with a single sheet, setting the others aside. "This one is old. It was passed on to us from the Anvil Guild when no one took it on.

 

"There's an old Imperial fort roughly equidistant between here and Anvil called Fort Rhapsody. The men used to call it Fort Pleurisy because of the unwholesome air; I gather it's in a swampy bottomland. Robed figures have been seen moving about there in the night and the inhabitants of a farm a few miles away have disappeared - an Imperial couple and two hired hands, an Orc and a Redguard. No doubt they are dead now, after nearly three months, but we ought to find out exactly what's going on."

 

“ That sounds-” Zudarra was about to say too easy, remembered how close she and Saraven had both been to death's door the day before, not to mention Narial. “-good enough. Yeah, we'll do that. I'm from Anvil, actually, and I know the place you're talking about.”

 

"Pleased to hear it. You should be able to navigate there without difficulty, then, I hope. The commander of the Fort kept an unusual object in his office, a paperweight made from an orcish gauntlet. If you would bring that back with you as well, please. The office is on the second floor of the turret."

 

He put the paper away. "Good luck. Be very careful. We don't know if these are necromancers or vampires or both."

 

“ Got it, thanks,” Zudarra said, and turned on her heel to leave. She was tossing the biscuit in the air and catching it again as she went back through the pantry and into the barracks.

 

Saraven had finished dividing the gold.  He put Narial's share back into the larger bag, put his into his purse, and left Zudarra's sitting on the bedspread.

 

“ We have a job,” she said to Saraven, in a better mood than before. She held the biscuit in her teeth while she rummaged through one of her luggage bags, finding her coin purse – rather deflated, only containing enough gold to cover a few week's worth of expenses. She held the bag open on the coverlet and shoveled gold inside with the other hand. The clink of coins as the purse swelled was almost musical. Despite its stink, Zudarra loved the smell and noise of money.

 

She took the biscuit out of her mouth, tearing off a bite as she did so. She made a face as she chewed. It was dry and tasteless.

 

“ An old fort in the swamp Southwest of here, vampires or necromancers,” she continued when her mouth was empty enough to make intelligible sound, shifting food into her cheek. “What are you going to do with Narial?” She swallowed thickly.

 

Saraven grunted as he got up to go get his mail. "Leave him and the horses somewhere out of line of sight and hearing from the entrance. If one gets past again they won't see fresh blood right under their nose. If it is vampires, that is." He shrugged into his mail shirt as he went on. "Won't leave him here. Too easy for someone to get him. The one in black is still out there, and if she couldn't follow you by scent she could certainly follow me."

 

Zudarra almost told him he was being paranoid about that – surely she was long gone by now. But worrying was his nature, so she just smiled, shrugged, and crammed the rest of the biscuit in her mouth to get rid of it. Zudarra would prove that she wasn't dead weight this go around. It would be like old times when they tore ruthlessly through the keeps and left a trail of corpses in their wake. Her heart beat a little faster in anticipation.

 

Zudarra undressed and changed into her padding and armor right there by the bed, turning her back to Saraven. Her back and shoulders rippled with muscle under the gray stripes. On her belly, a soft pad of fat and cream colored fur hid her abdominals. Her breasts might be seen in profile hanging from defined pectorals, round and full but not overly large, her small nipples hidden in fur. The bulging curves of buttocks and thighs were provided by muscle more so than fat. 

 

Saraven glanced at the Khajiit indifferently as she undressed. Well, stripped she looked as though she'd been feeding herself properly, at least. Maybe he'd been overly concerned about that. For now. One biscuit didn't seem like much of a breakfast.  When she was dressed she shoved her deflated bags and her purse into the chest at the foot of the bed and waited while Saraven fetched Narial, grinning stupidly to herself.

 

Narial listened to his explanation calmly as he led him back from the dining area. He had apparently found some new acquaintances; a vaguely familiar brown tabby Khajiit waved cheerfully to him as he left.

 

"So I'll wait with the horses," Narial said.

 

"Yes. This time further away and out of sight of the doors."

 

"All right," Narial said. He didn't seem bothered. He seemed to be thinking about something else.

 

It was cool but bright outside as they rode toward Anvil, Zudarra sitting up proud and tall even after they had left behind any witnesses to her glory. She explained to Saraven about the need to bring back an Orcish gauntlet and of the missing farmers as they went.  The request for the gauntlet paperweight did not surprise him. Thomas didn't want to have to send someone out to check their work again, and possession of an object found deep in the fort would prove they had at least been inside.

 

They passed a farm that looked deserted after taking a trail South from the main road, but they didn't stop to ask. The trail eventually ended and firm ground gave way to soft muck, rolling hills to bottomland, and prairie to forest. Shadow lifted his feathered hooves high as they carefully picked their way through glooping mud and fallen logs to the more solid patches of ground. They were only a few miles North from the Strid River, but the many branching distributaries seemingly ended not in ponds, but by slowly petering out and flooding the forest floor.

 

The bright day faded. A thick fog rolled through the forest, a canopy of yellow oak leaves and orange cypress needles  blotting out much of the sun. Effervescent balls of pale green light meandered around the base of the trees, sprinkling glowing dust that pulsed and faded in their wake. Their soft light reflected off the fog so that the entire forest bathed in the eerie glow. The party were always careful to give these a wide berth and the will-o-the-wisps bumbled along, heedless. More annoying were the hummingbird-sized mosquitoes that occasionally buzzed at their horses and a sulfurous stink that only seemed to grow worse the further they traveled. An assortment of frogs and insects chirped incessantly.

 

It was a few hours into the trek that Zudarra realized she was lost. It had been a several years since she'd come out that way, but she scowled and directed them around with authority nonetheless.  Saraven kept a wary eye and ear on their surroundings as they rode, half-listening to Zudarra. The woman in black kept recurring to his mind. She would have to feed again to keep walking in daylight, and that meant that his carelessness might already have cost another life of man or mer. She wouldn't be bothering to arrange a sexual tryst to disguise her feeding habits.

 

“ Just a bit further,” Zudarra promised for the fifth time when the old fort was suddenly upon them, half hidden through the fog and a forest that had grown up close around, even  _ in _ it. The tower was still standing but listing slightly as if the mud had begun to swallow it up. A young oak was twisting up out of a window and other small saplings had taken hold where soil had built up in crevices. A crenelated wall ran away from the tower, having once enclosed a square courtyard big enough to house several outbuildings which no longer existed. The wall had fallen down in so many places that they would be able to easily climb over the rubble, mounded by centuries of deposited dirt and the moss that grew over it. It was a good thing for that, because the iron portcullis had been totally overrun by creeping vines and was probably rusted shut to boot.

 

The stink of decay and an oppressive aura of dark magicka raised Zudarra's hackles even a hundred feet away. Zudarra noted that there was no debris in the courtyard, from what little she could see from here  – branches had been cleaned up, at least. Little blobs of purple and white spoke either of wildflowers or a cultivated garden. She noted, also, that all sounds of animal life had ceased.

 

A white figure inside the courtyard briefly passed behind a break in the wall. It had been holding a bow.

 

They reigned up well away from the ruined wall, too far for Saraven to hear hearts beating. He glimpsed the skeleton just as Zudarra did, eyes narrowing. Necromancers after all. Vampires could also practice spellcraft – his own magicka had deepened after the change - but the youngest usually would not bother.

 

He turned Ves – the gelding snorted unhappily at the waft of decay and strangeness from the fort as the wind turned toward them – and led them into the thicket down a narrow deer trail until they came to a clearing. A fat cypress, knees higher than Saraven's head, had roots and runners entangling the brush for yards around. The ground was covered in moss and damp weeds. Other cypresses sprang up at the edges of the space, probably grown from shoots of the elder. Beyond the ground sloped down into murky water.

 

"We'll leave them here," he said to Zudarra. "Go in on foot."

 

She nodded and climbed down from Shadow, then hurriedly staked him. She seemed very eager to get into the fort.

 

Saraven gave Ves a pat and a carrot stub he had been saving after he staked the gelding out.

 

"Are you all right?" he asked Narial. The Imperial nodded, one hand resting on his horse's neck as he stood by the tangle of cypress roots. He was a little paler than when they had met, but he was upright. He didn't seem sick.

 

"Yes. Do what you do."

 

Zudarra set off at a brisk pace ahead of Saraven.  He swore under his breath in Dunmeris and ran to catch up, drawing his sword.   As they retraced their steps and came closer to the ruined wall on foot, he could hear t hree beating hearts: living, not undead. One  near the top of the tower, two others below ground.  He was tempted by the possibility of that. These were dead on their feet and didn't know it yet. No one would care how. The roots of his teeth ached at that thought and that small discomfort recalled him to himself.

 

_ Be a mer, not an animal. _

 

Zudarra slid her axe from its sheath and broke into a jog, coming to the portcullis to look inside. There was a heavy iron door at the base of the tower, which she could just barely make out through the ivy by leaning because the tower rose to the immediate right of the gate. There were clusters of mandrake flowers, morning glories growing on poles, and other plants Zudarra didn't know along with fat little red-capped mushrooms growing in beds along the wall across from the gate. There were three skeletons milling about, one with the bow, another with a spear and a third with an iron cudgel and buckler. 

 

There didn't seem to be a reason to attempt stealth, so Zudarra banged on the gate with her axe when Saraven came to a stop beside her. 

 

"What the hells are you - "

 

She grinned when every eyeless socket whipped to her direction. All three broke into a sprint, clicking and clacking their way over to a gap in the wall to the left of the gate. One was producing an alarming rattle from somewhere that definitely was not vocal cords because it visibly had none. Saraven gave up on remonstrating with the Khajiit and sped forward, drawing the daedric blade. A skeleton swiped at the air where he had been as he vaulted a chunk of fallen masonry, slicing backward in an arc as he landed. The undead with the bow collapsed into fragments, bone rattling on stone.

 

The second skeleton veered toward Saraven, jabbing at him with its spear.  The third ran around him as Zudarra followed Saraven over the masonry into the courtyard. It turned to her.

 

It raised its cudgel to strike her but she was quicker with her axe, which glanced off the buckler it jerked up to protect its head. She sidestepped to avoid its belated hit. They exchanged blows a few more times, each parrying the other. Growling under her breath, she let the cudgel catch her bracer so she could chop underhand at the skeleton. The crushing blow knocked her arm down; pain shot through her. Blade thwocked against a hip it had not been able to guard in time and it stumbled back.

 

The Dunmer leaned aside, watching the spear dart past. It was faster than he had expected, and the undead did not lose its balance from overcommitting. It corrected backward at once, raising the spear to the guard fast enough to counter his attempt to cut it in twain. The daedric blade clanged on the iron that bound the ancient shaft. Wood splintered, but the reinforcement held.

 

The skeleton jabbed at his shins with the butt of the weapon, attempting to trip him up. Saraven jumped backward, planting his right foot behind the left in time to duck a swipe at his head. His upward slice nicked some of its jutting ribs loose, dusting his shoes with white, but he did not disjoint it.

 

Zudarra came after her skeleton savagely; it tried to parry but the force of her blow knocked its weapon arm aside. She grabbed the skeletal wrist as it swung up again and yanked. It was too well constructed for her to rip the arm from the body as she had sometimes been able to do, but she flung the skeleton down to the ground beside her, turning and pinning its shoulder with her foot. At the exact moment she buried her axe into the undead's skull a fireball whomphed out from a narrow window in the tower, exploding against her back and hurling her off her feet. Zudarra yelped more in surprise than in pain; her armor had insulated her from the worst of the heat. She rolled when she hit and jumped to her paws, fur only slightly singed on her neck and hands. A second fireball immediately followed for Saraven.

 

He was maneuvering around the undead, looking for a better opening, when a blast of hot air from Zudarra's directly drew his attention, but she was already gone from his field of vision, leaving behind shards of bone and black smoke. He threw himself flat just in time to avoid being set on fire, but the skeleton did not have vampiric reflexes. It exploded into white fragments, spear clattering on the rubble.

 

"Zudarra?" he hissed, now on his belly behind half a parapet.

 

Another fireball came flying from the window but Zudarra saw it in time and darted aside, scooping up her dropped axe as she went.

 

“ A mage in the tower!” Zudarra snarled in response. She ran for the iron double doors that lead into the tower so that she would be out of the necromancer's field of view.

 

"I can  _ tell _ there's a mage," he growled under his breath. He got up and went after her. She was alive enough to talk, that was good. 

 

Zudarra yanked open one side of the doors. It protested loudly as she dragged the heavy thing open. Inside was a short landing, a single set of spiral stairs leading both up into the tower and down into blackness.

 

Before she could step in, her ears twitched at a sound echoing from below: the clammy patpat of multiple bare feet slapping stone. She stepped back uncertainly just as a wretched scent hit her face, harsh preservatives and dark magicka that prickled down her spine. Then the naked torso of an Orc emerged from the dark stairwell. It took Zudarra a moment to comprehend what followed him. It was a tube of flesh, to which he was attached, three more headless torsos in all connected chest to hip. Arms and legs protruded from what was essentially a modular body at horrific angles so that it was able to scuttle along like a crab. The two rear segments and the sets of arms and legs there were pale, the second segment ashen. The Orc's torso protruded from the front at a 90° angle like the head of some horrible centaur. There were no scars to indicate where it had been sewn together, just a patchwork of skin tones. The worst of it were the features like nipples that could be seen on the underside of the body, the body hair and blemishes and other features that had belonged to a living beings before they had been crafted into this monstrosity.

 

Zudarra thought the Orc had been holding two weapons but realized now that his flesh stopped at the wrists. A spiked mace protruded from his left arm, a shortsword from his right. Riveted metal bands encircling the stumps kept the weapons secured to his limbs. The Orc held his head to one side, greasy hair falling down to his shoulders. The eyes were glassy but they moved, tracking Zudarra. He groaned from an already slack jaw, a harsh baritone. Zudarra backpedaled away from the thing as it scuttled out with unexpected speed, all limbs working in perfect tandem, her face twisted in horror.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

There was sound from inside the tower but there was no beating heart. Saraven dodged back to one side as Zudarra backed rapidly away from the door, and then the thing emerged into daylight and he stood staring at it in blank incomprehension for long seconds. He felt disbelief; then horror; then rage.

 

_ The one who has made this thing dies. Every drop of blood in their body will be mine. Every. Drop.  _ He almost swore aloud in Meridia's name before he remembered that he no longer served her. Arkay, the name most relevant in this situation, would probably reject a vampire for transgressing the mortal boundary just as the daedra lord would.

 

This was not the time for theology. Saraven shook off his horrified paralysis and hacked at it with the sword, trying to take off a couple of its back limbs.

 

The Orc half of the creature didn't seem to register pain from the rest of its body, but the limbs responded.  The arms clawed at Saraven, trying to yank the weapon out of his hand – gods, it was strong, he had to really work to keep his grip – even as the serrated blade sliced through flesh. Brown blood glooped from the wounds. 

 

The Orc swung its weapons at Zudarra in a relentless but unskilled manner, like a drummer beating a drum, one arm slamming down after another. The first time she blocked the sword the force of the strike was so great that it yanked her axe down and she had to hop back and to the side to miss being bludgeoned with the mace before she could raise her axe to block again.

 

Saraven ducked past its bulky torso and then he jabbed at the back of its skull as it continued to go after Zudarra. He wasn't even sure if decapitating it would kill it, but it seemed a logical first thing to try.

 

The Orc didn't even have time to cry out as the blade penetrated his spine below the brainstem. The head flopped forward, the muscles not totally severed all the way through but with a great gaping wound in the back of the neck. The rest of the body didn't drop – the torso twisted toward Saraven to bash him with the mace while the rear end scuttled sideways and curled around him, arms flailing to grab him and hold him. Zudarra hacked at its shoulder while it was preoccupied with the Dunmer, releasing more rotten blood and a horrid stench. It shuddered when she hit it but didn't go down.

 

Saraven didn't expect it to react as quickly as it did. The mace hit him in the upper left arm as he belatedly tried to twist away, and he felt the sickening pop as the joint dislocated. Then the thing was grabbing at his body and legs, and he was surrounded by a cloud of awful reek from the undead construct's flesh and blood. He managed to hack another limb off, releasing another gout of awful brown glop, but the others didn't seem deterred.

 

They were strong, but not quite strong enough. A mortal of his size might have been pulled to pieces. Saraven twisted and flailed at the thing with his sword, resisting every attempt to tear the weapon out of his grasp, but he could not immediately free his legs. His left arm hung useless and he did his best to keep it from being torn off by the abomination.

 

The Orc torso was still twisted toward Saraven. It raised the sword arm to strike him and Zudarra roared as she hacked into it just below the metal plate on its wrist, but her axe could not penetrate what must have been a metal tang extending the length of his arm instead of bone. But she did manage to knock the sword out of the air before it could hit the Dunmer. The creature responded by clubbing across its body with the mace, striking her hard on the helm with a loud clang. Consciousness blinked out and Zudarra dropped like a stone.

 

Saraven heard the blow and saw her fall, and he could hear her heart thudding irregularly as it slowed down.

 

"Hrrrgh." No. No. He could feel the urge to panic, strike out in every direction, attack it with his teeth and flail at it with his useless dislocated arm; but that was vampire thinking, that was useless and stupid.

 

Striking the head had hurt it, had rendered it more violent but less directed. Perhaps striking the heart would impair the blood supply to its many limbs. Saraven writhed, kicked violently until his left leg was free, and shoved against the ground with it as he lunged toward the thing's torso, stabbing at its back. The daedric blade went in like a knife into butter, and the wet squelch was awful, but the noise the thing made from the bubbling neck wound was worse. A gibbering howl rose for a second as it jerked all of its limbs, flinging him away, rolling Zudarra's limp body. He landed on the dislocated side. There was no blunting of consciousness to blot out the pain. He screamed as he felt every instant of it. When he had managed to get to his knees he turned and saw the thing convulsing as it scrabbled at the dirt, head still flopping and not quite severed, jaw hanging slack.

 

Saraven crawled rapidly over to Zudarra to drag her out of range of the mace as it pounded fruitlessly at one spot on the ground. He did not even look up until he had them both under the overhang, where the fiend in the tower far above could not see. Then he dragged her into his lap to push the damaged helmet from her head and heal her, daedric blade on the ground beside him as he held on with his good arm. The other lay limp beside him.

 

She was warm. She seemed to give forth heat like a furnace. Saraven was as clearly conscious of it as he was of her beating heart.

 

Zudarra jerked awake, her eyes wild with panic. The trauma to her brain healed so quickly that she was barely aware of any pain, merely of having blinked her eyes and appeared in a different place. One arm reached up to clutch at Saraven and then her eyes landed on the mutilated... thing writhing on the ground. Its erratic movements were beginning to slow as it bled out.

 

“ Saraven,” she gasped, and shifted up to support herself with her other arm. Her axe was laying several feet away, by the creature. She looked down at her helm – there was a huge dent across the forehead including dimples left by the spikes on the mace. She wouldn't have been surprised if it had cracked her skull.

 

"Easy, I've got you," he said, listening to her frantic pulse. He was abstractly proud of how strong she was. If he had needed to breathe, her clutching arm would have made it difficult. "You're all right - "

 

Scuffling footsteps, beating heart.  The mage was racing down the tower.

 

"Get your axe  _ now _ . They're coming." He squeezed her tight for a second, not even totally sure why, and let go and pushed her away hard. Zudarra launched from his embrace, scooping her weapon off the ground just inches away from the twitching fingers of the monster, then whirled to face the open doorway.  Saraven braced the hand of his dislocated arm against the ground. No time, no time at all. With one violent shove he had it back in, the bone socketing with an audible CLICK. He mostly smothered the noise he made with his shoulder.  _ Up, get up!  _ He was already groping for the sword's hilt even as the worst of the pain passed off.

 

There in the doorway stood the focus of his rage and disgust,  a scowling Altmer with short white hair. A translucent violet egg crackled around him. There was a strange emblem on his black robe, a red skull and skeletal hands reaching out of a summoning circle. He raised a palm at Zudarra and she barely managed to dart out of the way as the fire went barreling past and above the now-dead creature. Saraven's eyes narrowed as he slithered to his feet. Trying to get through that shield would hurt. That wouldn't stop him if there was a chance it would work.

 

He had never tried to use his mental powers offensively. Something about that had always seemed wrong to him, in the way that setting a fire outside a vampire lair seemed wrong to Zudarra. He tried it now, reaching out with grasping fingers toward the other mind, questing for weakness. The Altmer felt Saraven's prodding; tried to resist, but he was only a mortal and a relatively young one for his race. It was not difficult for even a fledgling to dominate his mind.

 

“ A vampire,” the mage hissed, turning to look at him, his eyes widening in sudden fear. He turned to flee into the stairwell.

 

"Stop."

 

_ I will be obeyed. _

 

The Altmer froze, railing against the foreign presence in his mind but finding himself powerless to disobey or to shove it out. Saraven dug through his mind without any attempt to be gentle, both ordering him to be still and searching for the design of the abomination they had seen, sieving memory like silver fish in a net. He did not want to be mistaken. 

 

The vampire could feel his terror mounting. The mage had indeed had a part in the creature's creation: he had helped to gather the bodies. He had paralyzed the farmer couple and their hired help before slitting their throats and gathering their souls. His two allies below, a Breton and a Nord, were the experienced sculptors who had directed him as he sewed together the pieces. Then they had healed the flesh into one form, had bound the souls both to their will and to that new body. The others would be making their way to a hidden escape tunnel just now, through a false wall lowered by a sconce lever in the main workshop.

 

Outwardly Saraven stepped over the inert undead and stalked after its master, sheathing his sword. Zudarra stood motionless, one ear flicked back in puzzlement, but didn't say anything.

 

"You will feel the pain, Valtur," Saraven said as he walked up behind the Altmer. He plucked the name free as easily as the rest of it. "I spare you nothing. Their souls are now free. I have no power to bind yours, and I would not if I had. But you will die suffering, and I hope that your soul rots in a Namiran hell for all eternity."  Zudarra's lips parted and she sucked in a breath, both her ears going flat, but she held very still, made no move to stop him. She could not believe such cold and malicious words could come from his mouth.  He gathered the Altmer into his arms imperiously, hard, without attempting to avoid bruising the mer's flesh, and he was not gentle as he sank his fangs into the Altmer's throat.

 

Blood flood his mouth, his senses. He was aware of the Altmer's feeble attempt to struggle, but he was weaker than Saraven even if Saraven had not been latched into his mind like a raptor's talons into the flesh of a struggling rabbit. He counted to ten from habit, but he did not stop. At fifteen the mer shuddered as he began to grow weak, feeling every instant of the pounding headache, the nausea and weakness, the throbbing in his eyes and heart as his body struggled desperately to live with too little blood moving too slowly.

 

At first Saraven luxuriated in his fear and hatred, adding that to his own pleasure as if it could wash away the events of the last five minutes. It did not. Instead he began to grow disgusted with himself, bathed in horror worse than what he had felt before – because this was something he was doing to another being. He was choosing to inflict pain. He drank faster, just wanting it to end, and at last the Altmer hung limp as consciousness faded for the last time.

 

Saraven let go and watched the exsanguinated body slither down the steps, blood on his teeth, blood on his lips.

 

His eyes were so wide the crimson sclera showed above and below the iris.

 

“Saraven?” Zudarra cautiously stepped toward the Dunmer, ears flicking forward again. 

 

He stiffened, eyes snapping upward to her face.  _ Don't touch me. I am the monster you have made me. _ He gritted his teeth around the words and then turned his shoulder to her.

 

"We have to hurry," he ground out. "There's an escape tunnel below. He killed them, but the other two bound their souls."

 

He knew exactly how to get there and lead Zudarra unerringly without slowing to let her catch up.  She sprinted after him, down the dark stairwell, jumping over the withered body on the steps without stopping. The stair twisted around until it ended in a long tunnel with others branching off.  She ignored these, following the distant blur rapidly advancing straight through the dark.

 

He outpaced her so easily. Scowling at herself, Zudarra reached for a potion as she ran, slowing down only slightly so that she could get her hand in the bag. She downed the slim vial in one gulp and chucked the bottle into the wall. The burst of speed was instantaneous, along with the euphoria. 

 

Saraven came to the workshop first, a room which had been cleaned up and furnished unlike the dusty hall that lead to it. Modern tables and other furniture had been dragged in, and laying on these were other corpses in various states of decay.  They did not look fresh, perhaps had been exhumed rather than murdered. It was a slim hope, but surely not many travelers passed this way to fall beneath spell and blade. One half of the room was cluttered with alchemy apparati and piles of books beside beds. There was a stone archway on the far end of the room, but the tunnel had been bricked in. Zudarra might have figured out it was a false wall eventually by sniffing around, but Saraven had already seen exactly what it was. Still-lit sconces lined the walls at regular intervals.

 

The stench was overwhelming. Saraven might have wished to be without enhanced senses at that moment as he skidded to a halt, carpet piling up in front of his feet as he reached accurately for the lever sconce. 

 

A puff of fresher air, dirt, mushrooms, came as a relief as the false wall ground aside to the right. Saraven darted in the instant the opening was wide enough. That was why the sphere of green magicka hit him in the face. He was prepared for pain but not for his body to suddenly go limp. Rubbery legs spilled him into the slimy stone wall, and he slid from there down to sit slumped on the packed dirt floor.

 

Darielle watched him fall, one hand still raised as she watched him with cold blue eyes. Limned against the light she saw dark gray skin, one pointed ear now tilted helplessly upward, the gleam of mail, the sullen glow of a daedric blade.

 

She was not an unusual woman in appearance; in the market, out of the black robes, one would take her for any widow of the Gates,perhaps some retired battlemage of older conflicts. Her face was handsome though heavily lined, braided hair long since gray. Most people would call her quietly dignified. Now she wanted to see what sort of mer or men had both destroyed their magnum opus and passed Valtur so easily.

 

"These are not Legion," she said, turning back. "Let's have a look."

 

Her companion, Erik, stood behind and to the left of the Breton a little further down the tunnel. The Nord’s face drooped with pale, sagging skin.  His furry eyebrows, short beard and long moustache were all the same shade of gray, the rest of his head hidden beneath the black hood. 

 

Zudarra saw a green blossom in the tunnel ahead and Saraven go down; she was sprinting past him the next instant with lips curled back over a sharp-toothed snarl.  Erik thought her a vampire when he saw how rapidly the big Khajiit came at them.  The fireball he hurled  impacted her cuirass and she hurdled through the flames with a screech, but the fire left only minor burns on her unprotected neck and muzzle before it dissipated.

 

Darienne moved as quickly as she could. Age and experience had their advantages to a magus, but agility was not one. She knew when she threw the paralytic sphere again that it would probably miss. An explosion of green magicka against the ground lit the tunnel briefly as  Zudarra jinked aside with gritted teeth so that the Breton was between her and the Nord. She  _ hated  _ being burned.

 

"Lightning, Erik,"  Darienne  said coolly. There would be an argument later about her telling him what to do – he wasn't Valtur, some enthusiastic young thing who would do as he was told in hopes of gaining real power – but in the moment he could usually be trusted to do the practical thing. That was something they shared. It had been so hard to find someone who really understood, who really shared her vision of the flesh as a canvas upon which masterpieces must be wrought. Erik was a disgusting old slob, but he understood.

 

Saraven, still slumped against the wall, was aware of an ability to wiggle his toes. He was having the strangest sense of familiarity. There had been another hallway in another life, watching Zudarra charge face-first into another enemy...

 

But that Zudarra had been invincible, a juggernaut. This one had been knocked cold as he watched.

 

_ Up. Get up, damn your eyes. _ He began kicking at the floor as his legs gained more feeling, trying to push himself upright against the wall.

 

Erik ran forward to get the Khajiit in his line of sight again, and even though he aimed for the spot where she would be and not where she was, Zudarra could see the old man throw up his palm in what felt like slow motion, the loose sleeve of his robe twisting majestically as it rose and fell. She dropped to her knees, leaning back to keep herself from pitching forward when her poleyns hit the dirt. She slashed at the woman's shin as strands of blinding light crackled over her head with explosive noise, scarring the wall black where it hit. The charge prickled her ears, the fur of her head standing on end.

 

Darienne screamed and fell, kicking ineffectually at her tormentor as pain exploded in her leg. Zudarra threw herself away in a roll just as a second flash of white lit the tunnel and lightning scorched the ground where she had been.  Darienne scrambled away across the floor, hurling a life-draining ribbon at the Khajiit.  It struck Zudarra as she rolled like a punch to the chest and she clanked up against the wall gasping at the painful prickling sensation jabbing her heart. She saw the red ribbon connecting herself to the mage and scrabbled up on jellied muscles to sprint toward the Nord. She had to get away to break the connection. 

 

The Nord raised his hand. Zudarra darted right. He was already firing lightning at the ground in front of her, having won his gamble and guessed which direction she would dodge. She ran right into it and pitched forward when it hit, unable to keep her muscles working as electric current coursed through her. Her nose smacked the ground and she convulsed on the floor, the scales of her armor rattling like coins in a tin cup, unable to even scream while she burned.

 

Saraven was on his feet, flexing his clumsy hands. It was passing off faster than he remembered. There was not time to think about that as he scooped up his sword and lurched clumsily toward the two mages. Zudarra had moved at a speed that was impossible.  _ Potions again. _

 

The Dunmer gradually picked up speed as he drew nearer, the paralysis passing off. Both of them were completely preoccupied with Zudarra, the woman snarling in huge-eyed fury as she trained her draining spell on the twitching Khajiit. Saraven whirled the sword once. Blood spurted briefly. The Breton's body toppled slowly onto its side as her head bounced on the floor, jaw still working furiously as almost fifty years of plans and work and practice shrank to a small point and blinked into nothing. Saraven dove over the body and rolled past the Nord without even stopping to check if he was being fired upon. 

 

The thread of draining magicka had been severed when the Breton fell. The pain remained. Zudarra moaned gutturally on the floor, fist still clenching spasmodically around the hilt of her axe. It took her two tries to release her heal with the distraction of all her muscles twitching at once. But then the blue light spiraled around her, pain slowly ebbed, and her body was her own again. She released the heal again while shoving her other hand under her chest to raise herself up.

 

_ Saraven! He's going to get the final kill!  _ That would make six out of seven, completely unacceptable.

 

Erik was pulling a silver dagger from his belt, but Saraven was already behind him. As the Dunmer came up he jabbed at the old man's leg from behind, trying to hamstring him. The man gave a strangled cry and dropped to one knee, twisting back and slashing at the vampire.

 

Saraven fought with himself for a split second as he seized the old man's wrist. The Nord could no more defend himself against a vampire's strength than he could an ogre's. He stank of rot and dark magicka and poor hygiene, but he had been a party to what the other two had done, and his blood would be just as sweet as the Altmer's -

 

_ No.  _ Saraven folded his other arm around the Nord's head and jerked it sharply sideways, breaking his neck with an audible report. He tossed the body away from himself as he scrambled upright, huffing through his nostrils to try to get rid of the smell.

 

_ Zudarra. _ He turned to look for the Khajiit as he sheathed his sword. She was still on the ground, faint blue light dissipating. Her pulse was fast, but smoothing out now, no longer herky-jerky from the effects of electric shock. He almost went to pick her up, but there was a look on her face that misgave him. She wasn't badly hurt enough to need his help, and in that case she would emphatically not want it.

 

Instead he turned and spat on the dead Breton's body.

 

"Rot forever. I wish I had the power to truly curse you."

 

Zudarra picked herself up without haste. It was too late anyway. The Breton's blood on her axe had bubbled and dried while she'd been electrocuted, leaving a gelatinous, dark brown crust behind. Zudarra crouched beside the woman to wipe the weapon off on her robes, then stood and slid it back into its scabbard.

 

“ You alright, Saraven?” she grunted, finally looking up at him. The fact that he hadn't fed from the last one was incredibly odd. No vampire rejected a free meal.

 

"No," he said quietly. "We found the farmers and the two farmhands. I don't know what to even tell Thomas other than that they're dead. No one would believe it." Without living flesh he had a very limited desire or ability to shudder. He did not now. He almost felt nauseous, and that was quite impossible. Blood once swallowed was absorbed very quickly, emptying his stomach minutes after it was full. There was nothing in there to vomit, not even normal bile.

 

"Valtur paralyzed them. That was the Altmer's name. I took it from his mind." He turned to walk slowly back toward the tunnel-mouth. "Then he cut their throats and he bound their souls, one by one. Some of them had to watch the others die, knowing what was coming. These two gave him his instructions on how to do the sewing, and they did the binding and healing afterward, to give their creation life. A sort of life. Not the life that four people would have had." His voice grew harsher as he spoke. "I have seen dremora perpetuate horrors on their prisoners, and so have you. But this – this was done in Nirn. One mortal to another." He slammed his fist into the wall as he passed through the doorway, causing a small shower of old mortar. He didn't really slow down.

 

"So I debased myself yet further than I have ever done. You saw.”

 

Zudarra walked beside him, listening quietly, trying to think of the right words to say. Normally she let crap tumble out of her mouth with abandon, but this was serious. Saraven was upset that he had taken pleasure from the suffering of another... why? The guy deserved it... But he'd think her being flippant if she said that. She stifled her breathing as they came back to the room with the corpses. She tried not to look directly at them.

 

“ You avenged their deaths and prevented more of the same. I thought that it's what you do that matters, not how you feel?” she asked carefully, echoing his own words to her. Her head turned so that she could search his eyes.

 

"What I did was to torture him in a way that benefited no one," Saraven said. From the corner of his eye he was dimly aware that she was looking at him. He was barely aware of the stink of death and rot as they passed through the workroom. He had not seen the gauntlet in Valtur's mind, but that didn't mean it wasn't here. He started up the stairs slowly. There was no hurry. Life was very brief and swiftly extinguished, but death was eternal.

 

_ It benefited you. You took what you wanted from a worthless person,  _ Zudarra thought, a little sullenly. She sighed heavily and didn't say anything more as they walked, still thinking. She fell in behind him as they mounted the spiral staircase, tail twitching behind her. The tilt of the tower became more apparent the higher they went.

 

The room the Altmer had been in was almost oppressively dark, a narrow band of white light from the window falling across a desk covered with books and papers in the center of the room. A single candlestick on the desk was still flickering. Rotted fabric and rubble were piled up around the edges of the circular room. There was a shelf in the shadows, filled with more books... and several skulls. A hunk of dull metal on the bottom of the shelf caught her eye and Zudarra went over to snatch up the gauntlet, hoping she had done so before Saraven could see the skulls.

 

She turned back with the gauntlet and came to a stop in front of Saraven, looking down at him with a funny look on her face – something between guilt and sympathy. One fist clenched beside her in frustration at her own helplessness to help him.

 

_ I was losing myself. Sometimes I was more of an animal than a person. I can't tell him it will get better, because he's stuck with this forever. I can't imagine what that must feel like for someone like him. _

 

“ It may not be easy, Saraven,” she finally said, “But you've already proven you don't have to be like the others.”

 

_ The others. _

 

_ The others like Zudarra.  _ Saraven's conscience smote him from quite another direction. 

 

_ It's time to pull your head out of your ass, Saraven Gol.  _ He lifted his chin so that he could meet her eyes.

 

"Sorry," he said, clapping her on the shoulder. "I don't know how you survived it as well and as long as you did. Without the gift of the Mad God I think I would lose my mind. At least you've found the damn paperweight. Let's get out of here."  Nothing had gotten past them this time. Narial should be safe and sound and waiting.

 

Zudarra felt better briefly, innards warming inexplicably at his brief touch to her armor, even though she knew that this was only the beginning of a hellish existence for Saraven. Someday Zudarra would be gone... Not that she thought so highly of herself that she was an irreplaceable ally – if anything she'd become dead weight now – but they did have a history together. Who else would trust a vampire? Who else could understand precisely what he was going through and forgive him if he snapped and acted maliciously sometimes?

 

Zudarra wasn't sure that anyone could. Zudarra wasn't sure that Saraven would even allow anyone to get close to him in the first place. He seemed to have been living a lonely life ever since the loss of his family and would probably continue to do so if Zudarra wasn't around.

 

She sagged forward on her horse with her hands braced on the saddle horn as they rode back to Kvatch, filled with deep grief and shame. If only she had known the full extent of the consequences for the choice she had made. Zudarra didn't want to die, but maybe if they had died together...

 

She felt the potion wear off while they were riding.  Sitting on horseback dulled the pain of being rendered useless again – when she got down to walk on her own two feet, her sluggishness would be impossible to ignore.

 

Saraven was not unaware of her manner, watching her sideways from Ves's saddle, but he also knew there wasn't much point in asking. If something was really but not fatally wrong she would lie. If it was anything less than that she'd just snap at him and not really answer. Maybe he had cut her deeper than he knew. Best to keep these things away from Zudarra's eyes from now on, as much as he could. It wasn't like him to prate at the inevitable.

 

It wasn't every day that he saw something like the thing they had left burning in the courtyard, either. He had taken the time to pour oil from the sconces over it before he set it ablaze. The necromancers he had let lie where they fell. He regretted his torture of the Altmer, but he did not regret that he had killed him. He would give no veneration to their remains.

 

Narial seemed to mostly be watching the road. He looked at one or the other of them when he thought they weren't paying attention, frowning slightly as though trying to puzzle it out.

 

At the Guild, Zudarra reported the success of their mission and left the gauntlet at the front desk, then followed the others into the barracks to armor down. Her helm was completely unwearable; tomorrow she'd have to deal with the smith, but there were only a few hours left of daylight now and she was hungry and emotionally exhausted.

 

Nobody said anything until they were mostly changed out of armor. 

 

“ I'm going to eat,” Zudarra announced tiredly as she tugged her linen shirt down over her head. She had laid the armor on the bed as she removed it so it could be cleaned when she got back.

 

Saraven glanced up and nodded. Maybe food would help her feel better. Or maybe she would be groggy enough to tell him what was wrong when he asked. "Narial, you should eat, too. Do I need to come pick something for you?"

 

"No, I can do it," Narial said.

 

"And then you'll actually eat it?"

 

"Yes, I will," he said firmly. He shut the chest on his heavy armor. He now had a homespun cotte and leggings with a string belt, all shades of gray. His collarbones looked sharp up at the top of the loose tunic, but he was gradually filling out with muscle again as food and exercise showed their benefits. One incident of blood loss had not ruined that progress.

 

Now he followed Zudarra into the dining room. There were a few people at early supper at different tables, but no one he recognized. People glanced up at them and then let them be. A couple of looks lingered on the big Cathay-raht. That wasn't surprising, Narial guessed. Most of them had to know she was the Khajiit from the book by now.

 

Saraven lay down on his side, turned his back to the room, and shut the world off.


	9. Chapter 9

Zudarra rummaged around for a bit in the dining room, fixing herself a plate of cold salt pork on buttered bread and some little white mushrooms that looked fresh enough. She saw that there were a few bottles of ale in the bottom of a cupboard and stared at them hesitantly. Typically, she didn’t drink. She'd grown up around enough drunken assholes, and Zudarra hated not to be in control of herself. But she was feeling sorry for herself tonight and it wasn’t like she had a physique to maintain anymore; Zudarra would always be second fiddle to Saraven now no matter how hard she worked for it. She grabbed two of the bottles and sat down at an empty table with her back to the rest of the room. After a few bites she started to perk up a little.

 

Narial collected a list of the things Saraven had made him eat before – beef, bread, carrots, the cabbage looked a little limp and the apple a bit soft, but that did not concern him. It wasn't going to have much of a taste no matter what he chose.

 

He sat down across from Zudarra and at the far end of the table, giving her plenty of space. They hadn't told him what exactly had happened today, but it must've been as bad as the vampires, or worse. He was not clear on exactly how angry she still was or was not at him. 

 

He ate slowly and with no pleasure, mostly looking at the table.

 

Zudarra watched Narial from her end of the table in between bites, suddenly remembering the horrors she had glimpsed in his mind. Many of the things she had seen with her own eyes – even the things she had done herself – were worse. But her personal memories were not so heavily colored by terror and confusion. She didn't have the energy to feel smug about that just now and instead felt a brief pang of shame for the way she had acted toward him. It was followed by annoyance for caring. Zudarra glanced around, found that no one was paying her any mind, so she shoved her plate down to the other end of the table. Then she picked up her drinks and scooted down to sit across from the Imperial.

 

“ Narial. What do you think of Saraven?” she asked, leaning forward just a little with her forearms crossed flat on the table. She did have an ulterior motive for the question: she wanted to know how much Saraven had fiddled with his mind. She seriously doubted Saraven would have forced love and a desire for subservience onto his thrall the way she had done to Galmir, but...  after what she’d seen today, Zudarra had to check.

 

"I don't understand him." Narial swallowed a drink of water before he continued, carefully setting the cup back in the spot from which he had taken it.

 

"He said that what he does is a degradation, that by having me he spares other people from it.  But it wasn't against my will. I told him I knew because I wanted to die. If I wasn't here I think he'd probably be able to find someone else like me. I can't tell if he thinks he's worse than he is or if he's trying to make me feel more important."

 

He looked at Zudarra, and for a moment he actually seemed to focus on her, eyes flicking up and down. She blinked at his stark honesty. He wanted to die? Why would he tell she who was practically a stranger?

 

"I know what he's doing. It's not something I would've chosen this time last year. But I know my head's not right. And it's better when I'm around Saraven."

 

“ It's because he thinks he's worse than he is,” Zudarra said. She uncorked the ale with a claw and wrinkled her nose at the harsh scent, but slugged it back anyways. The sweetness tempered some of the burn but it still did burn going down and she grimaced at the revolting sensation. It only felt good when the heat hit her belly. She clanked the bottle down on the table and took bite of pork to clear out the taste. She said bitterly, “Saraven is too good a person for this wretched world.”

 

Narial tilted his head at her, leaning forward curiously. "You know him. I guess you would know." He was aware in his clearer moments that Saraven had seen a great deal of his mind but he had seen almost nothing of Saraven's. The Dunmer controlled that exchange. If he thought what he did was that awful he probably thought seeing more of that would hurt Narial. Narial was aware of his constant, fretful awareness in those moments, of a mind watching his mind, ready to push things away if they started to roll over him.

 

And it was getting a little better already. He could talk to her now without cringing if he thought she might shout at him. For a little while.

 

It was obvious she and Saraven weren't lovers, but they seemed closer than people who just worked together. Whatever was true out of that book, it had pushed them together in a way that pushed them away from everyone else. He could see why she'd been so angry to see him. He didn't belong to that. He didn't fit as part of it.

 

Zudarra skewered a mushroom with her claw and brought it to her lips. “But you know, it  _ is _ a degradation.”  _ Even with consent.  _ Especially _ with consent.  _ She popped the mushroom into her mouth and spoke around it. “Are you content to live like this forever?” Her tone was without its usual harshness but she eyed him critically as she chewed and swallowed.

 

He shrugged.

 

"It won't be forever. Either he'll decide I've recovered enough and tell me to leave, or I'll be killed on a job. Some vampire like the one in black. Some other thing. What happened today, Zudarra?"

 

It was the first time he had addressed her without saying  _ Ma'am. _

 

She took another long drink of the ale before answering, swallowing several times. It still stung going down but she felt even better afterward, light and sluggish at the same time. 

 

“ There were necromancers. They had crafted the missing people into some sort of flesh atronach. It was pretty ugly.” She frowned, wondering how much was appropriate to tell Narial, but a comfortable fuzziness was setting in and she let it have her. “I think he mentally tortured one of the necromancers he was feeding on. I couldn't really tell what was going on in his head, but I've never seen him drink a mortal to death before. Only dremora.”

 

Narial frowned as he listened. "I see."

 

She'd never seen him drink a mortal to death before? He remembered the feeling Saraven had shown him that one time. He wasn't sure how it would ever be possible not to kill someone if sparing them meant letting that stop.

 

“But I've done things worse than that.” She continued. She rolled one shoulder, untroubled, and started in on the second ale. Narial wondered if it was meant to be a threat. She didn't seem that subtle, and she was drinking right now. Probably not.

 

"What did you do?"

 

Zudarra grunted, not really sure if she wanted to have this conversation. But Narial already knew the kind of person she was, so why hide it?

 

“ I killed all my first victims and I didn't spare them the pain. Saraven beats himself up for killing a murderer; well mine were completely innocent. I also took thralls against their will and let one of them die. That's all.”  _ That's all. _ It was like admitting she'd taken a lollipop from the candy store once when she was small. She looked at Narial's face, trying to get her eyes to focus. Her plate was mostly empty but for crumbs now so she swept it aside with her arm.

 

"That's more like what people say vampires are," Narial said. It was what he had expected when he first caught that little glimpse of teeth that were sharper than a Dunmer should have. It was harder for him to notice things like that now. Noticing everything, every second, had kept him awake all the time. The more he was able to see what was happening the more he got like that. Even now he was noticing the annoying flap and flutter of his own heart more, jump-stop-jump-jump-stop. He saw the little asymmetry in the fur on her face and he could count all of the stripes and he could see the tiny striations in the irises of her eyes -

 

_ Calm. _

 

It was funny how he said it to himself in Saraven's voice even though Saraven was in the other room and not paying attention. Narial forcibly stilled the finger that was convulsively tapping the tabletop.

 

"But you did save all those people," he said now. "Inside the gates to Dagon's country, and in Skingrad and Leyawiin, and in the City."

 

Zudarra rolled her eyes and her entire head with them. She wasn't sure that would be any consolation to those she had killed, but she didn't really care. Why did Narial and Saraven both turn to that as a way of “consoling” her, as if she even thought about the lives she could save? She braced her palms against the table and shoved herself up, gathering the empty plate and bottle into her arms.

 

“ Yeah. Well.” She carried them over to the sink and dumped them in, wondering what the Fighter's Guild policy was about failing to wash your own dishes. But that wasn't happening tonight. She came back to fetch her nearly empty ale, standing over her side of table and looking down at Narial.

 

“ You're never going to get better with the mindset that you don't care if you live.” He had seemed pretty blase about the possibility of being offed by a vampire. “Only fighters survive. G'night, Narial.” She turned and swayed into the barracks.

 

"Night, Zudarra," he said behind her.

 

Zudarra plopped down heavily on the mattress beside Saraven's, staring blearily at the resting Dunmer. She took one last drink of ale and set the bottle on the floor by her foot. He ought not sleep in his clothes like that. Someone was eventually going to notice that he never ate or took off his hood. The room gently rocked her so Zudarra leaned forward with her arms draped across her thighs to keep from swaying. She was fully aware that vampiric sleep was not like mortal sleep and that he was probably cognizant of his surroundings right now. It didn't seem to matter in that moment. Nothing did.

 

Being apart from him made her ache. Being near him made her happy, but still ache – aside from those times when she was getting upset over trivial nonsense. Zudarra let her face sink into her palms, rubbing either side of the bridge of her nose with the heel of her hands. Maybe she ought to leave. She had no future here and her emotions were reaching an intolerable level of intensity. Some small part of her said that maybe Saraven needed her, but that was laughable.

 

“ I must concede that I've never had a friend before so I don't know how that's supposed to feel,” she muttered to his back, sluggishly maneuvering herself under the covers. “But I did have a working heart once and it's not supposed to ache like this at all.” 

 

_ Voice. Zudarra. _ Saraven's eyes opened.

 

The words wrung him. Her voice was a little slurred. Drunk? He'd never seen her drink before. He could hear her shuffling things around over there, armor clinking as she crawled into bed.  _ Strong heart, slow. _

 

What did you say to something like that? Did she know he could hear her?

 

She would deny it in the morning if he asked.

 

_ So don't wait until morning. _

 

Saraven sat up slowly, turning to look at the Khajiit. Her eyes were closed and she had kicked her armor down to the foot of the bed to sleep underneath it. 

 

"It always hurts if you care at all," he said softly. "The difference is that with a friend you have the other moments, too. Hope and glory. A bright morning after the dark of the gate."

 

She almost didn't want to open her eyes again –  even with them closed she could feel a gentle spinning sensation and found it pleasant. But Zudarra dragged herself back to Saraven's voice, cracking open her eyes and cocking her head on the pillow to look at him.

 

“ That’s right,” she said sleepily. “We had plenty of moments of glory...” She smiled toothily at that. It was true. Every victory together had been exhilarating. 

 

He smiled back. There was no resisting that. It was one of the best things about her. He risked shifting over onto the other bed, indenting the coverlet right next to the lump formed by her body. She was so warm, would always be so much warmer than he was. He could feel heat radiating even through the covers.

 

"We did, didn't we?" he said softly. He laid one hand on her shoulder carefully. That seemed safe enough. She'd tolerated it the last couple of times. "You sneaked up on me. I worked hard at it for a long time, you know. Almost thirty years."

 

Zudarra didn't fully comprehend what he was saying. What exactly did he work hard at? But she found it too difficult to organize her thoughts enough to ask for clarification. Her heart beat a little bit faster when he touched her and her smile dropped off. She was staring up at him with an unfocused, slightly puzzled expression. She dragged one heavy arm out from under the blanket to lay her palm over his hand, the pad of her thumb rubbing over the top of it.  _ He's cold.. _

 

“ That's longer than I've even been alive,” Zudarra said. Suddenly, her face crumpled further in pain. “I don't know how to deal with this feeling, Saraven. How do I make it go away?” She distantly knew this was a conversation she would regret in the morning, but it all seemed to be tumbling out.

 

"Sh, sh," he said gently. He turned his hand to clasp hers carefully. Drunk or near death, that was what it took for her to voluntarily reach for him. It had always been thus. Probably it always would be. She had grown up among bandits, she had told him that much; her adopted mother was the highwayman who had killed her parents. You didn't come back easily from that sort of thing. All the horrors that Saraven had known had come to him as an adult. As a child and a young man he had lived on a farm outside Cheydinhal with his parents, and he had already been an adult and a Legionnaire when a sickness carried them off. It was sad, for a while, but it was very ordinary. Zudarra had never had a chance at ordinary, at a father who would hold her on his knee and tell her she was a good strong girl, at a mother who would brush her hair before bed and sing to her of the gods of her own folk and their ways in love and war.

 

"Sometimes this helps," he said, and squeezed her hand gently. "Sometimes we hurt for lack of it. And you might hate me when you wake up tomorrow, but I want you to try to remember that I said so."

 

That gentle pressure was more to her than any of the mortal pleasures she'd been reveling in since her change. It was confusing how a mer so composed seemed to have total sway over her own volatile emotions, but in that moment her questions did not matter. The Khajiit's pained expression smoothed out and she felt as though she were sinking deeper into the bed. Her fingers tightened around his.

 

“ No, Saraven, I'd never hate you,” she whispered, eyes finally shutting again. Her head lolled to the side and she breathed evenly through slightly parted lips, her fingers going slack in his hand.

 

* * *

 

Narial took his dishes over and washed them and hers both, giving himself something to do with his hands while he thought. _ Only fighters survive. _ She wasn't wrong. But what could he do? Even if he'd been at his best he probably couldn't have fought off the vampire in black.

 

But sometimes it would be necromancers. Necromancers were just people with magical powers. He could get his mind around that. He'd run into mages at work sometimes, students who'd been drinking or were climbing the statues for a prank. These were much, much worse people than that, but at least they were something he understood.

 

Fire would help. Fire hurt vampires more than anything. He'd heard Saraven talk about setting fires outside their caves. Narial knew no spells at all. How hard would it be to learn one? A lot of fighters knew one heal, one fireball, one light, little things that were better than nothing in a pinch.

 

He couldn't bring himself to care much about living or dying. But while he was alive he could be less of a dead weight. That was something to work toward.

 

Narial went to look into the barracks. Saraven was sitting beside Zudarra, holding her hand.  It did not look like a moment that ought to be interrupted for something as ordinary as feeding.  It did not occur to him for one second that this was not an ordinary thing, not at all.

 

Which meant Narial would not be going to sleep. He shrugged and quietly went to get his shield and mace. Maybe the practice room wouldn't be busy. With nobody else there he wouldn't look so stupid if he lost it again. And who cared if he did?

 

* * *

 

He sat there holding that limp hand for more than an hour. Saraven’s fingers absorbed the heat and finally gave it back, but she would never know that. People passed him, one or two glancing curiously at them, and he was sure he heard someone going at the practice dummy down below. Maybe it was Narial. Maybe it would do him some good. At least it couldn't hurt, right?

 

Except that he wasn't sleeping. That wasn't ideal.

 

It was funny the things you didn't miss. He apparently didn't get muscle cramps from holding still for too long now. That was one to list among the benefits, he supposed.

 

After a while she changed position, probably to make her breathing easier, and he let go of her hand and gave her shoulder a pat as he stood up. The bed he'd been in was now occupied by a Nord he didn't know. The man looked exhausted, dark shadows under his eyes, so instead Saraven went to the top of the stairs and edged softly down to peer into the practice room.

 

Narial was circling the practice dummy, silver mace in one hand, shield in the other. His eyes were pained but they were clear, and there was a sheen of sweat on his face. Saraven touched his mind gently and found it lucid. He was fighting back the troublesome pictures himself.

 

"It's been more than an hour," he said quietly. The Imperial looked up abruptly, shield arm twitching, then straightened carefully as he recognized Saraven.

 

"Are you thirsty?"

 

"No, but you're tired. Go have a wash and go to bed. I'll wait up there for you."

 

Narial nodded and turned to go out to the bath house. Saraven went back upstairs to sit on the edge of the bed. That one was still vacant. It was strange to be the only one awake in a room full of softly breathing people. No wonder Zudarra had assumed he fed on them. It would be so easy. He could parse out each individual heartbeat if he chose...

 

He had not wished for daedric blood in two days. That was something.

 

Narial fell asleep quickly with Saraven sitting there beside him, insulated from the world by the vampire's careful shielding. The night went on. When you didn't need to breathe or move, when you could just be still, it was amazing how quickly it did pass.

 

* * *

 

Zudarra's eyes blinked open. She said “ugh” and pulled the blanket up to her chin, squinting up at the too-bright ceiling. Her throat hurt from dehydration and she was groggier than usual, but she didn't really have a headache. She was young and healthy enough to avoid a bad hangover. The memory of last night slowly trickled in, though, and Zudarra tugged the blanket all the way over her head, clenching shut her eyes.

 

_ Oh no. I'm an idiot.  _ Heat spread over her cheeks, a similar warm sensation curling in her belly. Her chest was aching again. But astonishingly, Zudarra realized that she was okay – not angry, not ashamed. Maybe just a little embarrassed. She felt weight across her legs and knew she'd fallen asleep without cleaning her armor. She slowly slid the covers down, wiggled up out from under them and sat up in bed to look around the room.

 

Saraven was sitting quietly on the other bed, one ankle up on the other knee, one hand on his ankle and the other resting on his thigh. His expression was distant, relaxed; as she moved he turned to look at her. The bed was empty. Narial was already in the other room, eating.

 

"Morning," he said.

 

Her ears flexed and then remained alert.

 

“ Good morning.” She held his gaze for a second but then it became too uncomfortable and she looked away. She let a stretch overtake her, legs and toes flexing under the blanket as she arched her back and yawned. Saraven stood up slowly, lips pulled to one side in a way suggesting amusement as she appeared to suddenly become much longer in the way of Khajiit everywhere. 

 

Zudarra was almost too comfortable to get up, but the dryness in her throat was killing her. She flipped aside the covers and swung her feet over the side of the bed, accidentally knocking over the bottle in the process. She leaned down to pick it up and then stood. Enough time had passed that she could look at his face again.

 

“ I have to go to the smith. What're you going to do today?”

 

"I haven't decided. We're not hurting for money. Maybe buy a spell book for Narial if I can find one in town. He asked me about fire this morning, and I'd rather he learn in a less painful way." He did not have the mage's trick of teaching spells by touch, but the new Kvatch Mages Guild no doubt held those who did. He well remembered what that felt like. He did not think the Imperial would handle it well.

 

And having Narial able to heal Zudarra if they came staggering out with no power was a good idea. Technically he was already able to heal Saraven. Their current funds would probably stretch to both books. The porter had repaired the broken catch on Narial's gorget for a very reasonable price.

 

“ Did he? That's a good idea,” she said mildly and went around to kneel in front of her trunk to grab a fresh change of clothes, throwing them over her shoulder. She was overdue for a washing, her fur still dusty from rolling in the dirt the day before.

 

Saraven classed that response as highly suspicious. He wondered if she'd been bending Narial's ear when he wasn't around. The man hadn't seemed upset, so at least she'd calmed down about him.

 

“ I guess I'll catch up... with you guys later,” Zudarra said slowly. It struck her that this was the sort of phrase she'd often heard other people use, but couldn't remember having ever said herself. She’d never had comrades-in-arms before.

 

"All right. Until later, then," Saraven said.  She glanced him over one final time, one ear tilting in the briefest hint of puzzlement before turning and heading into the dining room. He watched her go. Did that ear-flick mean she wasn't sure what to think about last night, or that she didn't remember it at all? She'd been sober enough to talk to him in sentences. Anyway, she didn't seem angry.

 

He never held them. He'd had sex with a few different guildmates over time, male and female, but he never held them in his arms before or afterward. At first it had seemed disloyal to his now long-departed Velaru, so he had fulfilled his physical wants as minimally as possible. Later it had seemed safer not to do anything that would bring him closer to someone who might be snatched away from him. People were fragile. All it had taken was one hungry vampire to end his world the first time.

 

And then there was Zudarra. She reminded him of absolutely no one and he was not sure he really had ever felt the same way about another person. Zudarra was not fragile. Zudarra was an army in one large furry body. Even mortal, the younger vampires were not stronger than she. Between the two of them they could probably keep her from succumbing to her wounds; and nothing would steal her from him in the night. It was impossible. He could not imagine it.

 

Mortal, she had only touched him to feed on him. Immortal, he was now cold. He wanted that comfort still. Some of the happiest moments of his life had been very near death, held by Zudarra. Everything had made sense. All of it had been worth it. And now... Now he was stronger than he had ever been, and he had not the words at all.

 

Perhaps the words would come. For now there were things that needed doing.

 

Saraven armored up in a leisurely way while Narial was talking to the porter. The porter was a sturdy, balding Imperial called Alder, a Guild veteran with whom age and injury had finally caught up. He knew a lot, could say a lot, wasn't ready to go charging down a cave into an army of goblins any more. Now he beat a dent out of Narial's shield as Saraven helped Narial armor up. How in the world had he dented the shield practicing? Beating the dummy with it? He must be recovering his strength faster than Saraven had realized. He resolved to decrease his blood intake to a count of five. In the warm light of day that didn't seem so bad.

 

The book shop was a couple of streets away from the Guild. People were busy in the late morning: pushing carts full of vegetables or meats to the market, carrying baskets in the other direction, herding children toward their tutors – good gods, children in Kvatch again, stirring the dust motes as they charged through in their knee-pants and little dresses. An Orcish girl about five almost collided with Saraven's knee, shouting over her shoulder as she ran. He stepped out of the way just in time. Apparently she was one of the designated dremora in a game of Martin Saves Us. Four others scampered past him and Narial in a herd, one little blond human pausing to stare up at Narial's shiny glass pauldron in big-eyed awe before he realized he was being left behind.

A guard directed them to the right place, speaking very respectfully to Narial over Saraven's head. It amused him how often people did not see the daedric blade at his hip. Bless the Nine for anonymity. He would not have Zudarra's kind of fame for the world, and if she ever decided she was tired of it, she would still be head and shoulders bigger than most Khajiit, making it very hard to blend in.

 

The shop was sandwiched in between two new storefronts. A sign out front had the image of an open book carved into it, with the words Nelarene's Books. Saraven opened the door to a blast of musty air and the sound of a tranquilly beating heart. An Altmer woman old enough to have visible wrinkles sat on a stool behind a high countertop, reading an old volume of The Real Berenziah. She wore her hair in a prim white bun from which many small hairs had escaped. The shop was full of shelving and piled high with books. In places they were stacked on chairs, on the floor, on the counter, on miscellaneous little tables whose original purpose was unclear. She looked up at them and smiled.

 

"Good morning, Sirs. Are you here to browse, or can I find something particular for you this morning?" Her eyes skimmed them both and came to rest on the pauldron, then the sword, then each of their faces: she rose slightly in Saraven's esteem. He watched as she straightened slightly, setting her book aside.

 

"My friend needs to learn a fire spell and a healing spell," Saraven said. Beside him Narial nodded.

 

"Learning from books is a bit slow," the Altmer, presumably Nelarene, said. "And sometimes a bit more costly. Would you not rather go to the Mages Guild?"

 

"I don't think that method will work well for him," Saraven said.

 

"Well, I certainly have a couple of things that might be useful. Hang on..." She dove into the stacks, and Saraven listened bemusedly to the sound of rummaging and occasional swearing in Altmeris. An errant moth flapped past him and headed for the rafters.

 

"I'll buy it out of my share," Narial told him.

 

"Let's have you buy one," Saraven said. "And I the other. An investment in your future." He respected the man's desire not to feel like a kept boy, but he also had promised to be responsible for Narial's physical welfare.

 

"I suppose that's fair," Narial said. Saraven nodded firmly, and they each took out a purse as the Altmer returned carrying two books and another moth, this one an extremely furry fat gray one sitting on top of her bun.

 

"Three hundred each," she said. "And I really can't go lower than that based on what I paid. I'm sorry."

 

"It's fine," Saraven said. That was actually a bit low. Probably the market for them was still weak in Kvatch, especially with a Guild here now.

 

The moth spread and folded its flat wings gently as they paid up. Saraven debated whether to tell her about it and ultimately decided against it. Narial gazed at it blankly for a second and then bowed to the woman politely and left, carrying his books.

 

Saraven bought a small sack of food at the Market before they went home, some smoked fish and fresher apples and pears for everyone to split. It was in the round and mostly outdoors, lined with crudely home-built booths and host to dozens of beating hearts. He kept close to Narial, but he seemed to be getting used to it now. They were back at the Guild in the early afternoon.

 

"I need to practice," Narial told him.

 

"Lunch first," Saraven said. "Then you do as you like."

 

The Imperial nodded as they crossed the stone courtyard. A few people were out attacking the dummies, including Arade. She didn't even notice them, intent on her stalking of the imaginary foe.


	10. Chapter 10

Zudarra drank greedily from the dining room pump by cupping her hand under the water and lapping it from her palm. She would have drunk from the stream directly if other people hadn't been around. Then she left without eating to wander around downstairs until she found the back exit and the bath house. She had to cut through a little stone courtyard in which more wooden dummies had been set up. There was also a table and benches; it would be nice to take a meal out there sometime. The area was enclosed by a rosebush hedge not currently in bloom and beyond that lay a field that stretched to the city wall, dotted with straw archery targets.

 

The big stone shed wasn't empty, but there were multiple tubs and the room was already warm from others heating their water in one of two hearths. They weren't anything fancy, just big square cavities in the wall with a hooked bar below the flue for the water buckets. The room was divided by a wooden half-wall that only spanned half the length of the floor, possibly to separate male and female, but no one seemed to be adhering to any such division. Zudarra was mildly annoyed by the flirtatious laughter of an Imperial couple sharing their bath as she heated her water.

 

Zudarra knew that she loved Saraven. He knew it too – there weren't any secrets between them. The part she couldn't understand was whether she simply loved him, or if she was _in love_ with him. Zudarra didn't have any experience with relationships of any sort, but she didn't live in a complete bubble. She'd been exposed to books, plays and songs like anyone else and her ideas about how people were supposed to relate to each other were drawn almost completely from these sources. Holding someone's hand as they fell asleep did not seem like strictly friendly behavior to her, and yet she had no other way to categorize it. It was a long way off from the typical gestures of romantic love that she'd heard about.

 

She knew she wanted more from him. But what? Sitting naked with Saraven in a tub and giggling like an idiot did not seem particularly appealing... but that's the sort of things people in love did, so perhaps she wasn't in love at all.

 

No one paid her any mind as she disrobed and lowered herself into the water. She shut her eyes, muscles relaxing as they absorbed the heat, and thought about Saraven. She thought about curling around him and grooming his bristly white hair with her tongue. She thought about squeezing him in her arms – Saraven didn't even need to breathe, so she could squeeze him as tightly as she wanted. Yes, that's what made Zudarra shudder with a golden-achy-wonderful longing. She scooted herself down until her head was just above the waterline and braced against the back of the tub, long knees sticking out of the water, and wrapped her arms around her belly as if she were holding another. She was smirking at her own fantasy, cheeks and brows twitching. It was very stupid, but she was alone and Saraven didn't have to know about it. Her neck started to cramp from that position very quickly so she finally sat up and actually washed herself before the water could go totally cold.

 

The smith down the road was an Orc named Nargol gra-Shad, who promised Zudarra's armor would be finished by the end of the day. Zudarra strongly suspected she'd been moved up in the queue after dropping her name, and that was fine by her. She returned to the Guild feeling better than usual, had a late breakfast, and went outside to the courtyard to exercise.

 

Zudarra was doing her calisthenics out on the field away from everyone else and happened to look up from a one-handed push-up in time to see Saraven and Narial crossing the courtyard.

 

"She can do push-ups with one arm," Narial was telling him.

 

"Of course she can. She's Zudarra."

 

Her ears whipped forward and she grinned, quickly finished the remainder of the set and jumped up to intercept the pair at a trot. She was panting lightly from parted lips, hazel eyes bright and alert.

 

“Is that fish?” she immediately asked when she was in front of them, nose and whiskers twitching, eyeing the bag that Saraven carried. She caught a whiff of something else, looked up and past the vampire, and saw _the_ Dunmer woman. Her eyes cut sharply back to Saraven's face but she didn't say anything at all, merely held her mouth awkwardly like a stroke victim trying to smile.

 

"Yes, it's fish," Saraven said. "And apples and pears. You want to come have lunch? I mean I understand if you're not hungry." He looked at her up and sideways, lips pressed tightly together as he suppressed a grin.

 

Arade glanced curiously at the voices, pausing with shortsword and buckler uplifted. Then she turned to stare at the Khajiit, red brows climbing into her hairline. Saraven was aware of her scrutiny behind him – _small heart, fast_ – as he carried the tantalizing bag over toward the table.

 

“Well I did eat, but if you take the leftovers in I might not get any later,” Zudarra said seriously, following Saraven with one ear instinctively turning behind to keep tabs on the woman. The bench creaked under her weight when she sat, laying her forearms across the weathered wood of the table. She had taken the seat that allowed her to keep her back to the courtyard. She could feel herself growing increasingly agitated, but desperately wanted not to be. It was a nice day, she felt well physically, Saraven was there – everything ought to be peachy.

 

"Probably not," he agreed. "Better strike while the iron's hot." He went to lay things out on the table: the paper-wrapped smoked fish fillets on their wrappers, the fruit on top of the flattened paper bag. Narial glanced over his shoulder curiously, finally feeling eyes on them, and Saraven heard the sound of vicious attacks on the dummy resume as Arade went on practicing.

 

"Why was that mer staring at us?" he asked quietly as he sat down. "Is it because you're famous?"

 

"Most likely. I urged her to believe I was a different Saraven. Do with most people if I can."

 

"Why?"

 

"I prefer not to be noticed. It's safer." He pushed some fish over to Zudarra and some over to Narial, letting them decide how much fruit they wanted.

 

She wasn't hungry enough for fruit, but Zudarra happily ate the fish, peeling strips of it off with her claws and chewing without haste. One brow arched and she shot Saraven a curious sideways glance. He was avoiding the guar in the room, but then, so was she.

 

“But you can get your armor mended for half price if people recognize you. I bet it'd get you laid lots, too,” she said very smoothly, although inside her emotions were starting to roil. Her tail brushed against the ground as it twitched back and forth.

 

"That's true," Saraven said. "But I hate feeling like people are looking at me. Besides, I don't want to get laid because I'm famous. I guess that's vain. Hells, I'm not even old any more, it's not that difficult without that." He doubted that could be taken as a personal insult, unless she had suddenly become promiscuous while he was away. He certainly saw no signs of it, and there had been admiring glances since they entered the guild. Plenty of fighters liked a big, strong woman. Male or female.

 

Narial was eating with the same determined expression he usually had, although he looked a little surprised at the pear when he took a bite of that. Saraven, trying to give him privacy in his own mind, hoped it had a taste for him. After a moment he looked at Zudarra and over at Arade, now viciously stabbing the dummy in the chest, and then back at Saraven.

 

"Oh," he said.

 

 _It's not that difficult? Just how much fooling around does he do?_ Zudarra realized that she didn't really know anything about how Saraven had lived his life at all; again realized it was not her business and that she was being irrational to feel so.. hurt. She very deliberately inhaled, stilling her tail.

 

“If you don't want to be noticed, maybe you should take that stupid hood off when you're inside,” she said teasingly, forcing a smile in his direction.

 

"Good point," he said. He noticed the tail ceasing to move more than he had noticed it moving. He glanced that way now, then back at her face. "Would you rather I had fed on someone sleeping?"

 

Zudarra inhaled sharply at his question, sucking part of the fish she'd been chewing down the wrong pipe. She spent a good thirty seconds hacking and pounding the table with a fist, making the fruit jump and wobble. Her eyes were tearing up. Both men watched with concern, neither willing to risk pounding her on the back. As soon as the blockage was cleared she whipped to face him with a glare, fist still clenched on the table.

 

“Arkay's Balls, Saraven, I was trying my best to stay away from the topic. Can't you take a hint?” she snapped. Saraven folded down the corners of his mouth. Narial quietly abstracted another pear, scooting to the end of the bench in case he needed to leave suddenly.

 

"That's more like it," Saraven said. "If you're unhappy we should talk about it. Hints don't work well between you and me."

 

Her lips pressed together and she gestured violently at Narial with her hand, as if to say _HE IS RIGHT THERE._ Then she turned forward in her seat again, leaning on her forearm to close Saraven out with her shoulder. She took another bite of fish, but her ears had flattened and her tail was whipping back and forth so hard that it was smacking the bench on the upswing.

 

“I'm always unhappy, Saraven,” she growled. “I was born that way and I'll die that way. You should know that about me by now.” Saraven looked over at Narial and back at Zudarra. The Imperial was frowning slightly.

 

"Narial, do you mind going back into the Guildhouse?" he asked. "You can take the books."

 

"No, I don't mind. Is this going to be all right?"

 

"Yes. Don't worry." His tone was firm. The younger man got up, gathered up his fruit and the two volumes, and went briskly back inside, speeding up slightly as he approached the door.

 

 _I caused that,_ he recognized unhappily as he shut the door behind him. _I was too weak to feed him and so he had to find somebody else._ That made him feel an uncomfortable tightness in his chest. For all that had happened, these two were still the best thing that had happened to him since that day. He didn't want that to end.

 

_Well, now you know what you can do about it. So it doesn't happen that way again._

 

He held the two books tightly in his hand as he went upstairs to the barracks. _Julianos, bless me, that I may be clear of mind. Just for this little while. Even if it's just today._

 

Until he was out of earshot, damaged heart jumping and fluttering and fading into the distance, Saraven waited with his elbows resting on the table. Then he said softly,

 

"I would like to see you happy, Zudarra. Without there having to be ale."

 

She made a scoffing sound and shrugged one shoulder at him. She didn't eat any more, but put her palm down flat on the table while staring forward. _He is always chasing after me, no matter how cruel I act. Why couldn't I have been nice to him, just for one day? Why does he put up with this? I owe him so much more._

 

“I am having a hard time,” Zudarra said, very stiffly, still not looking at him. Her tail stopped moving again, every muscle in her body going rigid. It was so difficult for her to admit that something was wrong, and so many things were wrong in her life right now. Unwanted emotions for her dearest and only friend were just the icing on the cake. “Someday I will find a way to make everything right. I will find a way to make myself more than dead weight. I am trying very hard to be fair to you.. I know I'm a difficult person.” She paused, breathed. “I know exactly all the ways I am irrational and cruel. I'm not stupid, even if I seem so conceited that I can't even smell my own shit.”

 

She realized that she was rambling and that none of that really addressed the issue or had been what she meant to say. She turned her head just slightly, hazarding a glance at his eyes.

 

“What I'm trying to say is that I will get a handle on my jealousy someday. You are– you are the first one, Saraven. You have a lot more experience in life than I do, so don't you know how that feels? Please, I just need time to learn how to cope with this.” The palm on the table curled into a fist and she turned away again, nearly tucking her muzzle into her shoulder.

 

_The first one._

 

"Oh, damnation," he said very softly, under his breath. "Yes. Yes, I know how it feels."

 

He had been a lot younger, and it had been a smith in Cheydinhal, where they took their produce to market. The man had never treated him with other than common politeness, and somehow that had been worse. It had been years before he stopped thinking about Lucius. The man would be long-dead from old age by now. That whole thing had hurt but gods, it had been so much simpler than this.

 

"Listen, girl," he said in a more normal voice. "You are not a dead weight. I said to Thomas the other day that I would have you beside me rather than half a dozen fighters, and it is the truth. The things we're fighting are the things no one else can survive, do you realize that? This isn't cave rats and goblins. These are the killing jobs." He paused a moment to let that sink in, reaching out to lay a hand on her wrist very gently, then withdrawing it.

 

Behind them Arade was rehanging the dummy, which seemed to have gotten knocked off its chain somehow. He was completely unaware of it, paying no attention.

 

"You are important to me. No one is more so. I don't – I can't imagine - " He stopped, hand opening and closing on the tabletop as he looked away.

 

"The things that give me pleasure cause harm to other people," he said finally. "I can't do that to you. I regret that I ever did. I don't like that I can do it to strangers. Getting some kind of yes, some kind of permission, is still not enough, but at least it's not what I did to Valtur."

 

Zudarra felt her ears heating up. She did know that Saraven cared for her deeply, yet hearing him say it triggered some sort of emotional convulsion, joy radiating from her belly and out to her heart and limbs in waves. She turned her arm over on the table, brushing against the spot on the underside of her wrist where he had once fed. She didn't want him to do that, either, as wonderful as it had felt that time.

 

She would never have been able to give him physical pleasure, even if he were mortal, Zudarra sadly realized. She had something wrong with her – she did not want what other people wanted. He would always have needed someone else for that. Her tail curled up on the bench, over her thigh.

 

She began to breathe very hard, heart thrumming in her own ears. She balked at what she was thinking of doing, lowering her hands below the table to dig into the fabric of her pants. He listened with concern to her pulse speeding up, brows knitting as he turned to look at her. Finally she scooted sideways on the bench, still keeping her head lowered and her eyes averted from him, until she felt her side touch his. In contact with his body Zudarra could feel how very taut every muscle was. Saraven waited, entirely still; but as he realized what she was doing she felt him start to unbind, the cords of his arm and shoulder slackening. She slipped her arm into his and pulled it down so that her hand could clasp his own. Saraven clasped her hand back carefully but without hesitation, brow clearing. Very hesitantly, as if he were cold water she was easing herself into, she leaned her weight against him. He did not lean away. He supported her firmly, solid as a stone. His thumb stroked the back of her hand, feeling the texture of her fur. _Warmth_. Even there her pulse throbbed against his hand.

 

“Will you...  will you let me do this, Saraven, every once in a while?” It was hard to speak. She had to whisper or her voice would crack. “I think I would be happy then.” She still couldn't look at him. She was on fire under the fur.

 

"As often as you like," he said gruffly. "It – I - "

 

Words failed him again. He inhaled so that he might sigh.

 

"You are warm."

 

And he was not. She closed her eyes. They were wet and she really did not want to cry in front of him, but it seemed like it was going to happen anyway. This felt so very right to her, but she knew from first hand experience how maddening it was for a vampire to be near a warm mortal body with a throbbing heart and be unable to possess it; she herself had failed to hold herself back from him.

 

“I'm sorry if it's difficult for you to be so close to me now,” she whispered. For once, she didn't want to be selfish. She didn't want to cause him more pain than she already had.

 

Irregular clanging continued in the background. Zudarra didn't even care that people might be watching them. Saraven was her entire world at that moment, the only thing that mattered at all.

 

"The Mad God's gift is still mine," he said softly. "The thirst is always with me, but I do only what I choose to do. Sometimes I ache for the blood of daedra. If there were a dremora in front of me I don't know what would happen. But whatever's mortal, that I can resist. To hold onto you isn't painful. It isn't the agony that being near me was for you." He squeezed her hand gently. "So spare yourself that particular worry."

 

She squeezed his hand back in response. For once, Zudarra wasn't going to argue. A single tear leaked from her closed lids, dampening the fur of her cheek.

 

She didn't know what to do now, did not know what to call this. It seemed that their relationship had been messy and ill-defined from their very first meeting and perhaps it would continue to be so forever.

 

But maybe there was nothing wrong with that.

 

Slowly, she disentangled her arm from his and slid it around his middle to pull him tight. The Cathay was too tall to really nuzzle into him like she wanted to, but she could hold him. The sun had warmed his mail, an illusion of body heat, but she'd rather have been touching him fur-to-skin. The stillness of his chest would never let her forget what he was, but Zudarra did not care. It didn't stop Saraven from being Saraven. She finally did open her eyes just so that she could look down at him, to fill more of her senses with him even though he was a little blurred by the liquid shining in her eyes. She moved her free hand to take his up again and a low rumble began in her throat. Zudarra was too happy to be embarrassed of that.

 

 _Oh gods..._ she was purring. He'd never heard her purr. Not once.

 

Saraven laughed quietly in joy and disbelief. He put his arm around Zudarra in turn, careful, gentle; he was greedy for that and it would be so easy to ruin the moment by squeezing too hard. Arm around each other, his hand in her other hand, he felt warm through even though that was not a physical fact.

 

“Thank you, Saraven,” she said, one corner of her mouth twitching up in a soft smile. Zudarra had to close her eyes as she melted into his touch.

 

"You don't need to thank me," he said quietly. He felt calmer now, able to muster words if he tried. "I've wanted to do this since Leyawiin. But everything was so confused and then there were other things to deal with. You remember that moment in the cave?" He had risked sitting down beside her, shoulder to shoulder, as their two thralls slept. They had both been vampires then, constantly on edge around one another, each wary of the other's strength; but for one moment he had felt peace.

 

Zudarra blinked down at him in shock.

 

“Yeah, I remember. I was starting to realize I enjoyed your company, but I still didn't really understand what I was feeling. I'm pretty thick.” She smiled wryly. Her face and ears were still flushing. Love and joy and novelty and even some embarrassment kept rolling through her in waves and it was making Zudarra lightheaded, but she didn't want it to stop.

 

“But I think-” she said thickly, stopped, tried to compose herself. It was always difficult to remember that day. “It was in the cell that I realized you meant something to me.”

 

Saraven grinned. She could feel his face move against her shoulder. He was aware of her smiling – _hope and glory_ \- but it was hard to look right at her. The sound had gone away behind them. Whoever-it-was had gone inside. It probably wasn't important. Who cared.

 

"For me it was Anvil," he said. "I tried to explain it to you then, but I hardly understood, so there was no way you were going to. And then we argued about Galmir and changed the subject."

 

“That was a very long time ago,” Zudarra said, frowning, a little confused. “And I'd been nothing but awful to you.” _And you annoyed the piss out of me back then._ He still did, sometimes, but Zudarra figured that was fair. She was probably ten times worse. “Are you just a glutton for punishment or something? It seems like every path you've chosen in your life has been the hardest one a person could possibly take...”

 

She lifted her eyes to the field before them, where little songbirds were hunting in the grass. The city wall blocked much of the view of the sky, but beyond that it was a nearly cloudless powder blue. Occasionally a breeze would tug at her fur and shift through the hedge, but it could never sweep away her radiating warmth. The world was very calm and beautiful today. It was as if everything the sun touched was positively shining.

 

"That's right, flatter me." His derisive snort was, by now, very familiar to her. "I needed somebody and you were the first one I'd talked to for more than a few words over years and years. And you carried me through parts of the Kvatch gate – remember that? To this day I don't know what you were thinking unless it was that I might be a meal later. Which I guess I was." He squeezed her waist tighter for just a second. "And it was easy to find an excuse to stay around when the world was ending."

 

Zudarra's chipped ears lowered guiltily.

 

“Yes,” she said quietly. “As a matter of fact, I was planning to make you my thrall after you'd been weakened by the gate. I guess I decided you were more useful to me with your strength in tact.” She shrugged against him. It was awful to admit, but he knew that about her.

 

As the conversation went on, as Saraven became gradually more accustomed to the comfortable warmth of her body, other things started to filter back in. They were sitting outside the Fighters Guild taking up the only table with benches. People could definitely see them. If they went inside even more people would see them. It figured that this conversation would happen here instead of out in the woods somewhere.

 

_We should get a house. Maybe not in Anvil, I don't know. But a house. With a big fireplace with a big screen in front of it. And a rug. A bear rug. Big enough for two people to sit on. And a big bed full of blankets to keep the heat in, maybe a little stove to put bricks in for the sheets._

 

_And another smaller room for your thrall to sleep in? Get a grip on yourself, Saraven Gol. You're too old to fantasize._

 

He was not able to scold himself overmuch for it. It was a beautiful day, and he was not yet so thirsty that the sun could hurt.

 

A Breton in leather armor carrying a bow walked out onto the archery field, scattering birds as he went. He glanced over at them once, his gaze lingering a little longer than was comfortable for Zudarra. A tabby Cathay Khajiit sitting with a Dunmer would always make people wonder; it was not because public affection was particularly interesting to anyone, but Zudarra suddenly felt hyper aware of what she was doing. She awkwardly shifted away and withdrew her arm from around Saraven’s side, but she didn't break away quickly or push at him.

 

He let her go with a pat, meeting the Breton's eyes with a small squint of amusement: it is what it is. Saraven turned to look at Zudarra as she detached. Nothing good could last forever, but it was a moment he would carry with him always, storing it up with the other precious stolen fragments of time that he had not known with anyone else.

 

"Arrogant," he said now, still amused. "Although it's obvious you had a type. All males. All mer."

 

“No!” Zudarra protested, turning her face quickly away to hide the embarrassment. “They were just the conveniences that happened to present themselves...” She realized then that he might've been joking, and turned back to face him with a grin. Now that she was not right against him, she could see down at his face more clearly, and that was nice too.

 

“Don't flatter yourself, either. You all look vaguely like naked mole rats to me,” she said, trying to hide her teeth with a mouth that wanted to smile. Maybe he wasn't wrong, though. Having grown up among smoothskin races, Zudarra already suspected she viewed them differently than other Khajiits. She'd heard others say that they couldn't tell elves of the same race apart because their faces all looked the same and there was so little color variation between them. And Zudarra did find herself drawn more to males, aesthetically, but it truly was just a coincidence that her thralls had all been male.

 

She did enjoy the harsh angles of his face, especially the bend in his nose, his jaw. And Zudarra really did love Saraven's hair, maybe because it was something like fur, she didn't know. But she would have liked to run her fingers over it sometime if he could ever stand to remove the hood.

 

Saraven would have been extremely pleased had he been aware of her thoughts, but as it happened, he was not. This new detante was precious and probably fragile and he was not ready to threaten it by touching her mind again, especially not considering what he had done the last time.

 

"Yeees," Saraven said, drawing out the syllable derisively as he turned to swing his legs off the bench, leaning his elbows back on the table for a second so he could poke her in the ribs with one outthrust finger. It was greatly daring, but this had been a strange day. "Odd how the bodies with the most blood in them were never the most convenient for you," he said. "That's how I choose my thralls, you know. Because they're bigger." His gravel voice quaked with suppressed laughter. "Bigger naked mole rats."

 

Zudarra caught his hand by the wrist, playfully shoving it away but then not releasing him at all. Her grip was very firm. She turned aside, pulling one leg out from under the table to straddle the bench and bared her sharp little teeth at him in a toothy grin.

 

“You like them big, Saraven? I always heard that dark elves weren't very discerning, but I didn't know that about you.” She did not feel jealous of his sexual exploits at all in that moment. It was just a joke.

 

He let her have that wrist and poked her with the other hand, too fast to be easily caught. The young vampire in him still protested that: _slap her down before she decides she's in charge._ He quashed it more easily now than ever. _I am not that creature._

 

"In bed I don't care. Never have," he said. The poking finger hovered out of reach, threatening. "Big thralls are practical, woman. Otherwise everybody looks the same in the dark."

 

She twitched sideways when he poked her, stifling a sound that was horrifyingly similar to a giggle. She tried to catch his other hand, but it was impossible. There was no way she'd be able to move faster than him unless he allowed it. Zudarra grinned in a predatory way, her tail thrashing like a mountain lion about to pounce. But then she released him and pulled back, letting the stored energy drain from her muscles. She wouldn't have known what to do if she tackled him. She had never really played with someone before.

 

She snorted.

 

“Practical, yes. I guess I just have a thing for elves. I'm sure my ancestors would be rolling in their graves right now.” She let her hands rest on her own lap, ears and tail totally relaxed.

 

He grinned back from under his hood. He wasn't quite sure what would happen if she did pounce on him other than that he'd be knocked flat and they'd look very silly, but people did practice grappling out here occasionally. It wouldn't be that odd. Now he leaned on the table with one elbow, twisting back around to face her more fully again.

 

"Ancestors. I can't imagine. I served the Nine, and then Meridia, and now... I speak to the Nine, but I don't know that they hear me. Neither the Vile nor Molag Bal has turned up to claim my soul, so I suppose I haven't had to make that choice either; and then there is Sheogorath. If I did die tomorrow I think I'd wait until the fight started and then sprint back to Nirn."

 

Her smile softened, faded.

 

“Don't talk about that,” she said. He might be a vampire but his dying was still a very real possibility given his line of work. It was the only thing that bothered Zudarra as much as the reality of her own eventual death, and even more so that he always spoke very flippantly about it. He'd even stood in front of the great thrumming pillar of fire, thinking about tossing himself in. She hated knowing he had ever felt that way.

 

Saraven made an apologetic hand gesture, a throwing-away, and stood up. He flexed his shoulders. A year ago that set of movements would have produced a series of cracks and pops. Zudarra looked around the courtyard, noticed the Dunmer had gone and that different people were around, some to train and some walking back from the bath house.

 

“What now?” Zudarra asked. Her face was starting to hurt from flexing muscles she didn't normally use much and she felt mildly nauseous from the extended barrage of new and unfamiliar emotions. She could hardly comprehend that this was real – had she really held Saraven’s hand? – and not a dream.

 

"I don't see a future for us as burlesque dancers, so I guess we'll have to keep working for the Guild," he said. "If you've got another idea, I'm all ears. We can always save up and invest in property somewhere. There's always money in that." _House. With fireplace. And rug._ "Give ourselves a place to come back to that isn't full of strangers. Today..."

 

For today he found himself at a loss. He still wanted to end vampires where he found them, but now he had a reason to live. That made planning for the future a little harder. After a second he shook his head.

 

"I want to give Narial time to learn his spells before we ride into a pit again."

 

Zudarra blinked at the mention of buying property. It was not something she had ever thought of as either a joint or solo venture. She was always traveling between the Imperial City, Kvatch, and Anvil so there had never seemed to be a reason for that. She could probably milk her fame enough to afford something very nice, now, but...

 

“I can't ride out until my armor is finished, and it's too late in the day to undertake travel anyways. We'll pick up a job tomorrow, sound good?” She looked back toward the building, as if she might see Narial peering out at them from a window. She did not.

 

“Maybe you should check on him. I – well, I'll be in later.” She did not know how to say _I need a minute alone to process things without having so many eyes on me._

 

Saraven nodded. He was amazed at how well she had born it, but they had got through it, that was the important thing. A feeling of warmth lingered, spread across his chest though he had no heart to beat beneath it.

 

"Later, then." He touched her arm just once, but without hesitation this time, and turned to go inside.

 

Zudarra smiled as he left and waited for her racing heart to calm, but it didn't seem to want to. She was confused, but happy. She felt guilty for being so difficult to deal with. But mostly she felt like everything was going to be all right, for the first time since they had parted. She watched the Breton fire arrows into a target for several minutes, not really focusing on him, just staring in that direction. She would have thought that after such an explosive burst of emotion she would feel calmer, but if anything Zudarra felt as though her entire body were tingling with energy.

 

She killed some of that energy by finishing the workout Saraven had interrupted and didn't stop until well after her muscles burned and her legs were wobbling jelly. When she left to retrieve her armor she was emotionally and physically exhausted in the most pleasant way.

 

* * *

 

Narial sat on the bed upstairs, bent over a book and studying furiously. He barely noticed someone plumping down on the mattress beside him. He looked up to see the Dunmer woman who had been practicing outside. A faint sheen of sweat still clung to her skin. It was almost metallic, pretty in the afternoon light from the upstairs windows.

 

"He is that Saraven, isn't he," she said almost accusingly.

 

"Yes?" Narial said.

 

The mer sighed, looking at him as if this were his fault. He waited, eyebrows raised.

 

"There's no competing with Zudarra the Bloody," she said. "Nobody could."

 

"Oh. No, probably not," Narial said, shaking his head. "I don't try. I'm only here for a little while."

 

The Dunmer nodded. "Well, at least I can tell people I shagged somebody famous," she said dryly. "Bye, now."

 

"Bye," Narial said. He watched her sashay out of the barracks, then shrugged and went back to his reading. That was how Saraven found him several minutes later – sitting unarmored on one of the beds, reading, one hand outstretched beside him, heart pounding in its irregular way.  A little spark of blue magicka darted upward from his palm as Saraven watched. It faded quickly. His face was red with effort, eyes wide with strain, and his shoulders heaved as if he had been running.

 

"Narial?" Saraven said, pausing at the end of the bed. His reach toward the other mind found it focused, but still agitated, feverish with the need to make this work. The other man's head jerked up at the voice, eyes jittering in their sockets for a second before they found Saraven. There was a second of panic in which he clenched his fist, dissipating another small puff of magicka. Pain pulsed through Narial's chest.

 

"Easy," Saraven said, turning one hand palm-out. "It's just me. Calm." He soothed and surrounded Narial's mind as he spoke, smothering the agitation, urging that he relax. Narial's hand opened slowly. From the inside Saraven felt him accept, even wallow in the alteration, and he felt the tiny release of power as a perfect blue spiral sprang up around the Imperial.

 

Narial smiled. Saraven was aware of his mounting dizziness, so he was already moving as Narial started to slump forward, eyes unfocused. Saraven moved lightning-fast to catch him, shoulder against his chest, arm around his waist, and afterward had to quickly look around in case anyone had seen. The people who were around him seemed busy sleeping or at work.

 

"I think maybe you overdid it, boy," he said quietly. He laid the Imperial down on his side, listening to his juddering heart. The pauses were longer than they should be.

 

"It worked," Narial mumbled. Saraven pressed a hand to the center of his chest and applied his own healing in case that might make a difference. It didn't particularly. His heart had healed wrong the first time it was hurt and would not be righted so easily. "You saw that it worked."

 

"Yes, I saw. Well done."

 

"I don't have the fire spell yet," Narial said. Saraven quickly quashed his mounting anxiety, hand resting on the Imperial's shoulder.

 

"That's all right. To get the whole thing in a couple of hours is doing amazingly well for someone with no spells. Rest. Breathe deep."

 

"Zudarra - ?"

 

"She's fine. We argue. We work it out a little better each time. She'll be in later." Saraven frowned. That was a source of specific and significant anxiety to Narial for some reason; he took a moment to follow up that interior thread of blame. Then he shook his head.

 

"Oh, Narial. None of that was really about you. It certainly wasn't your fault."

 

"If I hadn't been weak," Narial slurred. His eyes were getting heavy as Saraven watched, gradually surrendering to Saraven's gentle urging to relax. He no longer felt dizzy, just very heavy.

 

"You would still have been facing a vampire old enough to challenge me and Zudarra, son. It was my fault for placing you where she would run directly into you. My fault, do you understand? Not yours. Do the best you can, but put that out of your mind."

 

"Don't skip tonight." His eyes were shut.

 

"I won't. I'll wake you when it's time to eat dinner."

 

Narial sighed as he opened and closed his right hand once, eyes shut. Saraven felt his relief as he let everything slide away. The Dunmer patted his shoulder and got up to sit on the edge of the bed. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately. Probably it would've been more practical, that word he kept using to Zudarra, to choose a thrall that was slightly healthier, slightly differently afflicted in the head. The fact was that he'd just latched onto the first one he couldn't say no to. Saraven shook his head slightly, elbows resting on his thighs.

 

_You are a foolish, sentimental old man, Saraven Gol._

 

* * *

 

The Argonian manning the desk in the Fighter's Guild lobby looked up from a book as Zudarra entered, carrying her armor bags over either shoulder.  She’d picked them up directly after finishing her workout.

“Zudarra Stratilian?” he asked. Zudarra froze – it was not a name she heard often, and she immediately feared for her mother's health.

“Yes, that's me..”

“A courier left a letter for you a while ago.” He stood and leaned over the desk with a letter in hand and Zudarra took it, frowning.

The envelope was addressed to her old apartment in the City, but this had been scratched out and her mother's address written below. This, also, had been scratched out, with _Fwd: Zudarra Stratilian, Kvatch, Fighter's Guild_ written below. The original wax seal had been broken, leaving behind a dark spot of residue. She continued on through the practice room and up the stairs to the barracks while reading, but slowly came to a pause on the stairs.

_Zudarra Stratilian_

_As you are no doubt aware, it is strictly prohibited for non-mortals to hold rank in the Arena. As detailed in Section Four of our charter:_

“ _No combatant afflicted by the curse of lycanthropy, vampirism, lichdom, corprus disease or any other contagious illness and/or supernatural ability shall be permitted to become a member of the Arena.”_

_It has come to my attention, courtesy of your recently published biography,_ Tales of Zudarra the Bloody _, that you may be a vampire. Whether or not this is true, I cannot allow the reputation of the Arena to be tarnished by accusations that we have allowed a vampire to infiltrate our ranks. As we acknowledge your service to King and Country you will not be stripped of your title of Gladiator nor will the records of your wins be annulled, but you are hereby banned from further participation as an Arena combatant._

_I am sorry to deliver this news. The matter is out of my hands._

_Blademaster Owyn_

She crumpled the paper and its envelope together in one fist. Wasn't that just beautiful? She had helped save all of Tamriel and this was the thanks she got for?! All of her dreams, her ambitions, tossed into the fire just like that.

_You couldn't have stayed with the Arena and Saraven at the same time._ Part of her had already been resigned to letting go of that life, but another part had been convinced she was merely taking a long hiatus while she found herself again. Now Zudarra knew she would never go back, even if she wanted to. She stalked up to the barracks and flung her bags down, then headed toward the dining room. She always lost track of time when she was training; she'd been several hours outside so she wasn't surprised that they would've left for dinner.

Saraven heard her coming from across the room – strong heart, stomping feet – and looked up in time to see Zudarra barreling toward them with crumpled paper in hand. Narial looked up, then at Saraven in alarm.  She slapped the crushed letter down on the table in front of the Dunmer and stood glaring down at him with her hands on her hips, tail whipping violently by the floor.

“Can you believe this?” she growled, oblivious to what anyone else might overhear. “They kicked me out of the Arena!”

Saraven looked from her to the paper and back, then picked it up to read it.

"Ah," he said. He set it down in front of her. Narial resumed eating a piece of bread, which was now closely indented with the prints of his fingers. "Well, you can't really blame them. I mean even as a mortal, it wouldn't really be fair any more. You've fought things most of those poor bastards can't imagine. Half the people who compete in the Arena would have soiled themselves and then died yesterday."

She just growled under her breath, but Zudarra already felt herself gradually calming down.

“I don't care if it's fair. That was my future.” She sighed and sat down across from him, closing her eyes briefly to smooth out her facial features and breathe. When she opened them she asked, “Do we have a job for tomorrow yet?”

"No," he said. Thinking forward. That was good. "But I can go talk to Thomas right now, if you like. There's always something." It would be something that had taken the lives of more than one person, if the pattern were followed, but by now he was confident in their ability to come out alive. And undead. In Saraven's case.


	11. Chapter 11

Saraven came back with another job, this one originally slated for a rank between his and Zudarra's. The Ayleid ruin of Hereindel had been a study site for the Mages Guild before the Gates opened, mainly on account of its complex statuary aboveground and its intact power well, but the academics had all been youngish and novices and had been forced to flee when a gate to Oblivion opened nearby. Afterward it had been colonized by goblins, and the Mages Guild, shorthanded in these difficult days, had offered it as a subcontract to anyone who could clear it out. It wasn't the kind of money that their first job had offered, but on the other hand, it was only about five miles to the East. They were boxing the compass, Saraven thought wryly.

 

He assured Narial that it would be all right to set the fire book aside until they were done. He fed that night, but very lightly, the minimum that he felt would still preserve him from the sun. Narial would have been fretful if he had not.

 

The next day they rode out bright and early toward the rising sun. The path toward the ruin was a narrow deer-track off the main road, lined with presently unblooming flax and brown grass. There were only scattered trees, many already skeletal in appearance as the autumn wore on. They came up over a small rise to see the ruin spread out below them. Hereindel was a magnificent wreck of an old city center, columns arranged around a central plaza that held a power well. Even from a distance the lance of light could be seen hovering above the sharp metal frame at the center of the fitted stone circle. Statues stood between the columns, covered in layers of vines gone brown at this time of year. Some appeared to be elves, one with wings, but some were so worn by time and obscured by leaves that it was impossible to tell what they had been.

 

A smattering of black hide tents lurked around the base of the power well. Fences made crudely of bones and sticks stood around the edges of the ruin, decorated with garlands of skulls too small to be human or mer. From the top of the rise the goblins themselves could just be made out, stoop-shouldered and heavy-knuckled as they scampered around. Some seemed to have spears, some crude swords and shields. Saraven thought he glimpsed a staff with a ram's skull atop it.

 

"Well, there's a lot of them," he said as he swung down from Ves's back. "So this might take a little while. Narial, you set up in the hollow behind us."

 

"Yes." The Imperial reached out to accept the reins of the two other horses.

 

Although Zudarra hated herself for thinking so, she was relieved they'd been given an easier job. After dropping to her feet she waited until Narial had cleared out of the way, then started down the slope.

 

“Stealth would be better advised this time,” Zudarra said, glancing aside at Saraven with a grin. “But alas, there's probably no way to pick them off without others noticing. See you on the other side!” She yanked her axe from the scabbard and broke off at a sprint, knowing he could outpace her anyway.

 

"Stealth is never a bad – b'vek!" And here he was running to catch up to Zudarra again. He released power as he went and faded into invisibility, a trick that he had gained when he was changed.

 

A goblin dressed in crude bone armor was standing a bit away from the others at the ungated entrance gap in the fence that partially enclosed the ruin, a sentry. It began screeching unintelligibly and banging its iron mace against a shield that had been a buckler to someone else, but was quite large in the hand of the goblin. Others within the city were roused, poking their heads out of tents or scrambling inside to grab their weapons. It raised the shield to block as the Khajiit bounded for him, a brassy gleaming juggernaut. Her axe impacted the smaller creature with such force that he was sent tumbling back, rolling feet over head and slamming into a wooden barrel some feet behind. She ran past him into the settlement without checking to see he it had been killed.

 

As goblins converged on the giant shiny thing that had just smashed one of them almost in half, Saraven vaulted the fence and skewered one who was running toward the fracas, then another. He turned just inside the fence to sprint around the edge, trying to estimate their numbers. There were perhaps eight tents, and it was hard to tell with the boil of activity, but he thought perhaps twenty goblins by the sound of their beating hearts.

 

The camp stank. They had crudely dug holes to use as latrines, but hadn't put anything over them or made them very deep.

 

Close to the back a goblin in a tattered robe was just emerging from a slightly larger tent, shaking a staff with a goblin skull on the end of it. She screamed at the others in her own tongue as she turned to aim the staff at the running vampire. A blast of ice hit the ground several feet behind him, and then he skidded to a halt slightly past the goblin mage, stabbing backward with his sword. She made a wet gurgling noise as it pierced her heart and lungs, sagging to the ground.

 

The next goblin that came at her found Zudarra's axe buried cleanly in its neck. She no longer had quite the strength to sever the head in one chop, and she planted a kick to the goblin's chest to free her weapon, blood jetting from the gash as it fell back. A thrown spear banged against her armor from behind and Zudarra whirled, finding three of the things racing to encircle her with more on their heels. They were only as tall as Zudarra's waist and it felt almost like cheating as she bashed one in its unarmored skull with the hilt of her axe and knocked another aside with her bracer. There was a very resounding crack as she broke its jaw.

 

She heard spellfire, looked up to see a mage crumple and knew Saraven was at work.

 

A goblin ran at her from behind and leaped onto her back, grubby fingers digging into her scale pauldrons and clawed toes finding footholds in her chain skirt. Zudarra barely managed to parry another jabbing spear as the weight slamming into her back almost knocked her to her knees. She heard hissing, felt rank breath blowing on her ear and something stabbed down through her ear hole, a sudden piercing pain in her scalp. The goblin had stabbed her with a jagged bone knife. Zudarra snarled and spun, sweeping out with the axe to keep the others that circled her at bay and trying to throw off the goblin at the same time.

 

It looked as though Zudarra was about to go down under a pile of the creatures. Saraven flicked his blade once and ran for them, tent flaps blasting forward behind him as the wake caught them. He reached for the neck of the goblin on her back one-handed, slashing at another even as he jerked the first one free. He shook it like a terrier shakes a rat, and tossed it aside when he heard the snap.

 

Zudarra's palm clenched on the hilt of her axe. Magicka spiraled up her arm and over her body to heal the gash, but not before hot blood had spilled down her face beneath the helm, multiple little rivulets streaking her fur. One streak ran down by her right eye.

 

She hissed at the goblins, showing her teeth. Saraven's hood had fallen back as he ran, and now he bared sharp teeth at the goblins as well, unbreathing and utterly silent. From there it was a swift and nasty melee as they stood back to back, facing a ring of yellow-fanged snarling faces. Goblins surged at the warriors from the front and sides.  Saraven cut at them furiously, his arm moving too quickly to be seen, and behind him he heard Zudarra fighting like a demon; she fought with restraint, never in sweeping arcs or spins that might hit the mer behind her, but was no less savage as she cut them down and flung broken bodies into the air. He used his lightning spell exactly once. Otherwise the spell gesture just seemed to take too long.  

 

And then it was quiet: one strong heart. They stood alone in a ring of little green corpses, Zudarra heaving as her head whipped about in a search for more enemies.  There were none. The smell of goblin blood turned Saraven’s stomach slightly, the more so because he knew that it could feed him and he hated the idea of putting his mouth on one of the stinking creatures. His fangs ached. There was another, more seductive scent on the air, and after a moment he realized Zudarra was bleeding. She'd been cut a few more times on her arms and shins. They had been too minor to deal with in the thick of battle.

 

Zudarra stood up straight, released her heal again, and looked over her shoulder for the Dunmer.

 

“Thanks for that. You hear any more?” She did not, but she wouldn't if they were still. Saraven would ferret out a beating heart from anywhere in the camp.

 

He snarled at himself in silent revulsion, face turned away as he listened to her speak. The heal helped. His voice was quite level as he said,

 

"No. They're all dead." It looked as though one or two had tried to flee toward the hill from whence they had come, but Zudarra had cut them down before they got out of her reach. "I'll – I'll go check on Narial. See if you can find anything worth keeping."

 

The mages wouldn't be thrilled if they removed any artifacts from the site, but surely they had already taken away anything worth keeping or studying. He needed space between himself and the scent of Zudarra's shed blood. He was in control; but it hurt. He ached. Now he squatted to wipe his sword on a dead goblin's torn cotte and turned to walk toward where they had left the horses and his thrall.

 

Zudarra's eyes flicked over his retreating back, one ear tilting in minor puzzlement. She touched her chin, discovered her still-wet blood that had trickled there. She licked it from her finger and found it about as palatable as dirt.

 

She looked down at the smear of blood on her finger pad, brows furrowing. It was so strange how this liquid had once granted her orgasmic ecstasy, and now it was just... nothing.

 

But it wasn't nothing to Saraven.

 

She wiped her axe on the side of a tent before sheathing it. She had noticed several of the goblins with decent equipment. One corpse lay with a steel shortsword across its lap, nothing like the crude iron and bone weapons most of them carried, so it was actually not a bad idea to search the place and see what else they had gotten their grubby little hands on.

 

The smell inside the first tent she poked her head into was enough to make Zudarra recoil and step back, immediately losing interest in whatever might be inside. She kept walking until she came to the larger tent, the one closest to the well. She could feel the ancient power all the way down to her bones, and Zudarra was hardly any mage.

 

She ducked inside and found the air inside rank but tolerable. There was a small bed of animal furs just laying on the dirt ground and Zudarra shuddered in revulsion thinking that it must be crawling with lice. There was a wooden chest though, and several potions on a rickety little table. She was reaching for one of the potions to see if she could figure out what it was by scent when a little glimmer of light caught her eye, and she picked up a ring from the table instead.

 

The design of the ring was nothing remarkable, just the head of a wolf forged in steel, but it was warm to the touch and it sparkled in the light of the tallow lantern that burned near the bed, indicating a veneer of magicka. There was writing on the side of the band but it was too worn for her to read. Zudarra was somehow certain it must hold a powerful enchantment. She slipped it onto the pinky of her right hand, the only finger small enough for it to fit, and tried to draw the power from it.

 

Nothing happened.

 

She was about to slip it off when an alien presence slithered into her mind, so subtly that Zudarra was only aware when it was too late. She felt herself grow lax and her arms dropped to her side. She turned around to see the shadow of a small woman silhouetted in the doorway to the tent.

 

She recognized the black-haired vampire from the cave, knew that she was powerless to resist her. She tried fruitlessly to push the vampire out of her mind, a fly struggling against web. If she could raise her heartbeat Saraven might notice it, but Zudarra's body was far too relaxed for that even though her mind was reeling. It was almost like viewing her own horror and panic from very far away.

 

 _Feed me._ The vampire stepped forward, black eyes cold and unreadable. She was wearing a green robe today, the hood pulled over her head. Wine spilling out from an overturned goblet was embroidered on the breast of her clothing; she had murdered a priest of Stendarr for it. She pulled back her hood as Zudarra lifted the helm and chain from her head, letting it fall to the floor at her feet. Then she dropped to her knees with a heavy thud.

 

Zudarra's eyes rolled up to watch the vampire as she leaned over her prey, tilting the Khajiit's chin back with one finger to expose the throbbing artery. She brushed her hand sensually over the soft fur and then lowered her mouth to the Khajiit's neck. Zudarra felt pain as the fangs pierced her but she did not wince.

 

 _Saraven, I'm sorry._ She felt her mind pried open as the vampire drank, her most private and precious memories laid bare to the creature. She felt her strength bleeding away and could do nothing more than twitch her fingers. She couldn't even cry.

 

She expected to lose consciousness at any moment but she didn't. The vampire released her when she began to sag, catching the Khajiit easily in her thin arms. Zudarra didn't even have the strength to hold her head up. Her head rolled back as she was gathered up and lifted like a small child by a person half her size, the world swinging briefly. She fought to keep her eyes open as they began to move, so rapidly that the world was a blur. But her lids were so heavy and her mind had gone fuzzy, unable to focus on any thought for more than a moment before it slipped away. Her eyes finally closed as a tear leaked out to run sideways down her hanging head. Then the world faded to nothing.

 

Sabine was going home, home to the place where her sire and brother had been murdered. The Dunmer would live a hundred days watching his precious Khajiit die slowly and painfully, and then he would follow her into oblivion.

 

* * *

 

Narial was fine, of course. Even he could probably fight off a couple of escaped goblins, if there had been any. There were not. Saraven patted Ves, had his hair snorfled, and gave himself a moment to calm. The Imperial was uninjured, and his fluttering heart was in itself a resistible temptation. Saraven focused on it very deliberately as he stood there, shutting out other sounds.

 

"All right. Let's go and see if she's found anything," he said finally. "Be honest with me. Will dead goblins cause you difficulty? There are many."

 

"I don't think so," Narial said, and his mind was open and there was no lie in it. "I don't think I've really been around many."

 

He led Shadow and Cassy as Saraven led Ves back to the camp. When they were within many yards Saraven realized something was wrong. He could not hear Zudarra's strong heart. He frowned, quickening his pace.

 

"Zudarra?"

 

Had she gone underground somewhere, under stone? Surely she would have waited on something like that until he was back? He handed the reins to Narial, who was wrinkling his nose at the smell but did not seem traumatized by the corpses. With increasing speed he searched the entire camp and found no Khajiit -

 

And then he skidded to a halt beside a larger tent, nostrils flaring at the scent of shed blood. He pushed inside and found her helm lying on the dirt floor. And here there was another smell. Saraven bared his teeth in the filthy darkness as he recognized the scent of the escaped Breton vampire. _Idiot. You left her alone. She must've been waiting for just this chance._

 

He strode back out with the helm in his hand, hanging it on the saddle horn.

 

"Mount up, Narial. The other vampire has taken Zudarra. She must've come when I was out of sight."

 

Narial obediently climbed into the saddle, still holding the reins of the other two horses. "Will you ride?"

 

"No. I have to be able to track them. Just follow me. Keep back a bit. She'll be busy and maybe she won't attack you."

 

The vampire had not even tried to heal Zudarra after she -

 

 _After she fed on her._ He knew without the slightest doubt that it had happened. Rage suffused him. It could not raise his pulse, could not darken his face: it was a cold and terrible thing as it seemed to course through his dead veins. The only consolation, and it was a slight one, was that he knew she would not have killed the Khajiit at once. She had not taken Narial, the easier victim. She had taken the one that she thought would hurt Saraven.

 

A few tiny drips of blood had fallen as she carried Zudarra away. Even if they had not, he could follow the scent of another vampire that had only just departed very easily. He started out at a run, only slowing down enough for the horses to keep up.

 

_I'm coming. If you don't see me it's because I'm on my way._

 

* * *

 

Sabine paused in the forest, listening. If she concentrated she could just make out the arrhythmic heartbeat of the human she had fed on before – it had made the three of them conveniently easy to track – as well as the three strong hearts of their horses. The Dunmer, Saraven, was an idiot for bringing them all along. He would never catch up with her in time if he did not abandon the human.

Even sprinting her fastest, it took over two hours to reach the cave in the hills between Anvil and Kvatch. She was not worried that the Dunmer would lose her, as it would be obvious after a while where she was headed. The Khajiit's blood had fed her well and Sabine was strong and quick and not worried about being overtaken by him.

There were new bodies piled in the room by the entry, a Legionnaire still in most of his armor and the half-naked priest. The smell of rot as they passed was what slowly began to rouse Zudarra from the black depths.

She woke to find herself propped upright, chin resting against her unarmored chest. She lifted her head weakly, eyes fluttering open, dry tongue pushing against her teeth to get her saliva flowing. The dryness hurt her throat when she swallowed. She recognized the smell of this place and then the dark shape of the broken chandelier, glowing shards of Welkynd stone still scattered across the floor. She had been stripped down to her padding, the repurposed chain from the light wrapped snugly around her torso. Her ankles and wrists were bound with rope. She leaned forward, feebly tugging against her bonds, but her muscles were too weak and she was dizzy from blood loss. The room reeled around her and she barely knew which direction she was leaning. The chain scraped against the stone chair she'd been placed in but didn't budge far. Her wrist ached and Zudarra vaguely remembered that the vampire had fed briefly on her once again before tying her up, but it was all so distant and dreamlike.

She could not see the vampire but felt the malevolent presence behind her and inside her head, watching. Zudarra barely had the energy to be angry. She looked around for her things, saw them piled several feet out of her reach. She ached for her waterskin or even one of her potions.

Even this brief bout of consciousness was too exhausting to maintain so Zudarra let her head drop down again, body slumping, ears flat and tail hanging limp off the stone seat.

_Saraven, please don't come..._ Her sinuses burned but no tears fell.


	12. Chapter 12

Saraven debated with himself for long seconds as he ran. An elder would try to trick him: run ahead, cache Zudarra and fall back, kill Narial as he was trying to catch up, then find her again before he could reach her and extract her from whatever trap they had set. Kill them both. Leave him with nothing even as he struggled. Was she that clever, that fast?

 

_ She may be that cruel but she is not that quick. I'll have to risk it. _

 

At last he fell back beside the running horse, growling up at Narial:

 

"I have to go faster. She's going to the cave we went to on our first job! When you get there, hide as best you can. Not the same place." He only waited long enough to see the Imperial's curt nod before he sped up.

 

He did not feel fatigue, did not feel his muscles aching, did not suffer the excitation of a pounding heart or gasping lungs. What he did feel was the gradual encroachment of the thirst. It grew worse as he grew nearer the cave. He had fed lightly last night, not wishing to stress Narial's recovering body. He skidded to a halt outside the door, paced to and fro like a lion, snarling as he tried to catch any scent that would tell him more. There were fresh corpses inside, but neither was Khajiit. No, she wouldn't kill Zudarra without him there to watch, surely. Surely. He was just too far out to hear her heart yet.

 

He entered the door carefully, tapping with his sword and jumping back, but she hadn't really had time to set any physical traps. She would be waiting down below, where it had happened. Of course she would. There was no other possibility. Saraven began to make his way down, hackles raised even though his body was dead. He consciously forced expression from his face as he walked. Vampire thinking would kill him, would kill Zudarra. Hunter thinking might not save him – but the chance was better, however slim.

 

He felt a pang of guilt and self-loathing as he passed the corpse room, recognizing that his failure had cost two lives.

 

Sabine heard the footsteps as Zudarra did, but the Khajiit was floating in and out of consciousness, unable to really comprehend that the soft and distant noise was Saraven. The vampire came around to the other side of the throne to wait for him, cradling the Khajiit's head against her chest with one arm. She grinned at the hall he would emerge from, lips and teeth still smeared with fresh blood. She had thrown off the robe and was dressed in her black clothes now that there was no need for disguise. In her other hand she held the Legionnaire's sword, the tip of it resting on the ground.

 

Saraven emerged from the short hallway into the throneroom, walking with measured steps.

 

"I'm here," he said. It was for Zudarra more than for the other vampire. He could hear the Khajiit's heart now, weak and fluttering from blood loss, and he felt that cold, cold thing creeping through every limb. The vampire and the mer were at last united in something.

 

The daedric blade was in its sheath. There was no point in having it drawn.

 

_ No! Get away...  _ Zudarra didn't have the energy to make her mouth work, but one eye cracked open and she growled weakly. She tried to pull away from the hand that held her head up but she was not able to. Fingers stroked over her ear.

 

“ Throw the weapon on the floor or I'll snap her neck,” the vampire said. She wasn't grinning anymore. She gazed passively at him, hatred smoldering in her black eyes alone.

 

Saraven laughed harshly.

 

"If you like. It won't save you."

 

The daedric blade clattered on the floor. It glowed sullenly in the dim, a weaker, angrier light among the cold blue welkynd shards. As the sword hit the ground the vampire sprang at him, both hands on the hilt of her sword in a driving thrust. Zudarra felt wind on her fur as the vacuum suddenly filled.

 

Saraven leaned aside barely in time. Not even in time. The sword gouged along his right side, and he felt his dead flesh bruise as he jerked his right elbow at the Breton's temple. She was fast, made faster by Zudarra's blood, and he felt himself to be weaker than he should be.

 

Sabine jinked away from the strike and whirled as she passed him. Still hopping backward she opened her left palm and hurled frost at him, a cloud of icy vapor meant to freeze his joints and slow him.

 

Looking for the backhand blow, he turned as she turned. He was not expecting the spell. Saraven threw himself down, but the kiss of ice caressed his left side with freezing agony, stiffening his limbs. He rolled away as fast as he could. The fingers of his grasping right hand found a welkynd shard.

 

He was between her and Zudarra. He snapped up to one knee and threw underhand, aiming for the vampire's chest with his unfrozen right arm.

 

She blocked the shard with her sword and it shattered. Fragments were still tumbling through a mist of blue dust in the air when she was gone from that spot, darting at him with the intent to skewer his shoulder, knock him back and pin him to the ground. Saraven leaned away again, and that was why the sword caught his chainmail instead of his flesh, but he was yanked backward as the links were nailed to the stone floor. He heard the floor chip under him as the blade struck propelled by that tremendous strength. He opened his frozen left gauntlet, snapping the fingers apart, and fire roared up at the other vampire. He dared not use the spell more than twice. Zudarra would need healing.

 

The vampire screeched and jerked away from the blast, dropping her sword and releasing a heal with both hands before she was even out of the flame. She bounded away, putting distance between them until she was at the wall to the left of the chamber with no where else to go, blue magicka still pouring from her palms. The stink of burned cloth and flesh hung in the air. The angry red patches on the underside of her face and other parts of her body had healed to a bright pink when she stopped to conserve her magicka.

 

Saraven rolled to his feet, seizing the longsword before the hilt had time to hit the floor. He circled to his right, trying to herd the other vampire further from Zudarra, away from the daedric longsword where it lay between them. He favored his left side. He was limping slightly enough that most people would not notice, but he knew the Breton would see.

 

Zudarra strained against the chain, head rolling as the room spun and she tried to figure out where up and down were. She could hear the overwhelmingly quiet sounds of their battle, soft scuffscuffing that was more whisper than footstep and the sudden sharp crack of something shattering. But it was the heat and light of the fire that startled her fully awake. Her eyes flicked up.

 

Her weakened heart suddenly began to pound faster, stronger. Zudarra thought she was panicking, a rush of adrenaline after seeing fire and wondering whose burning flesh she smelled. Her jaw dropped but breath hung in her throat and she gasped at a sudden pain in her chest, as if a hand had clenched round her heart. She felt pressure and energy all around her, as if in the presence of some titanic being more ancient than the world itself. She screwed shut her eyes and dropped her head again, mouth still open in a silent scream. Her bound wrists behind her back jerked as she instinctively tried to clutch her chest.

 

Something was wrong behind him. Suddenly Zudarra's heart was loud, thundering in Saraven’s ears, surely impossible with so little blood in her body. He dared not turn his head and look. The vampire in front of him could have the daedric blade in hand and cleave him in thirds before he looked back again.

 

"Zudarra?"

 

“ Saah-!” Zudarra panted through the pain, desperately trying to warn him away.

 

An itching had started along Zudarra’s spine and in her gums. Every muscle in her body began to twitch erratically. Even as she lost control Zudarra felt her strength trickling back, her heart hammering more furiously than before with every beat. She could feel it against her ribcage and in her ears, pumping liquid fire running through her veins. Her teeth pushed out from her gums with a slithery, itchy sensation and Zudarra's eyes shot open, pupil so dilated that the hazel ring was only a sliver.

 

_ Vampire!  _ It was the only coherent thought she was capable of forming: she was somehow becoming a vampire again. She cried out but it was garbled and short. Her muscles were swelling, straining against the chain and the ropes. The bonds bit painfully into her flesh but it was nothing compared to the burn inside her own body. She could feel her own bones shifting and cracking, like creaking ice settling on a lake. She finally screamed as her skull pushed out and Zudarra watched black fur spreading across her muzzle. She realized then that it was not just her fangs that were growing but all of them, until rows of long teeth and four massive canines crowded her mouth. A tongue far too long spilled from her panting jaws.

 

_ Saraven, help me! Make it stop!  _ was her last conscious thought before rage and bloodlust enveloped her. A wave of darkness flowed from her muzzle across her head, down her spine and to every limb, swallowing up her soft gray stripes and leaving behind the rough pelt of a wolf. Her small nose broadened, grew round and black. She could smell blood, her own blood from earlier still on the vampire's lips but the animal brain thought only  _ prey _ . Her claws had been convulsively springing from their sheaths and back again all this time but now they darkened and hardened as her hands and fingers elongated. She was left with sharp claws as long as daggers on massive, long-fingered hands.

 

Rope strained against muscle as her body continued to grow. The creature she was becoming growled at the pain of it, a deep, guttural sound. The chain links groaned against the chair.

 

Sabine lobbed frost at Saraven again and ran for the daedric sword.

 

This time he knew it was coming. It was a choice he had made many times, to power through the spell, through the flame, through the ice, through the lightning, to get to the thing the enemy wanted most. But something was very wrong behind him. Zudarra's desperate exhalation did not end in a real word, and he could hear the snap and grind of bones being unmade and made again.

 

_ What is happening? _ She was not becoming a vampire. That was not the sound that he heard. Saraven reached out toward her mind even as he threw himself to one side. The spell hissed past him to explode in mist and ice on the stone floor, scattering welkynd fragments. They crunched under his side and back as he rolled, holding the longsword clear in order to avoid impaling himself.

 

What he found was not Zudarra. Not the Zudarra that he knew. The thing he found was older, it was rage and darkness and a lust for blood quite apart from the vampiric thirst that even now tormented him. He jerked away from that contact as quickly as he could as he rolled up to one knee, automatically raising the sword to the guard. His eyes were wide, crimson in the dark, mouth pressed to a flat line as he struggled against thirst, against the frigid pain in his left limbs and side. Against weakness. 

 

The vampire had snatched the sword from the floor as she ran, then darted aside to strike him. Sparks flew as serrated teeth clanged against steel and she jumped back, eyes flicking past the Dunmer and widening imperceptibly. 

 

The bigger welkynd fragments cast a sort of shadow from behind where Zudarra had been tied, lying black and long beside Saraven's knee. It had grown broader and bigger now, and the muzzle of the thing was monstrous and wolflike, not that of a Khajiit.

 

"What have you done?" he snarled at the Breton as he struggled to get to his feet.

 

Fabric ripped, split open with explosive force. Sisal strands creaked under the pressure not only as the werewolf's limbs grew too large to be contained, but as she pulled at them with monstrous strength. The gouging pain enraged her, made her fight harder as rope and chain bruised muscle. Hazel eyes were finally swallowed up by gold, like an ink drop in the water, when the first rope snapped. A metallic shriek followed a grating scrape and the chain broke, the ends whapping the stone before falling lax around her body.

 

The creature stood, drawing up to an impossible eight feet, yellow eyes glowing faintly in the dark. Zudarra's padding hung from her body in shreds, one breast exposed by the cloth that now only clothed one shoulder, pieces of sleeves still clinging to her wrists along with the rope on her left. Her pants had split at the thighs. Thick muscles bulged under a coarse, thick coat, a dark brown nearly black. Zudarra's tail, once slender and expressive had turned bushy, like the long-furred ruff of her neck. Lips curled back over wickedly long fangs and the werewolf promptly crashed down as she tried to step forward with her ankles still bound, catching herself on arms that seemed abnormally long compared to the rest of her body.

 

Sabine’s lips parted as she watched the beast snarl and jerk her head down to gnaw savagely at the rope that still held her. She had not seen this in the Khajiit's mind or smelled any trace of wolf on her, so how..? 

 

Didn't matter. Sabine jumped forward and jabbed at the Dunmer again, this time at his head .

 

As Saraven desperately twisted away from the blow, once more interposing the steel before his face, he saw the startlement in the Breton's expression. She hadn't done it. She had planned to beat him into submission and torture them both to death, not to unleash a monster capable of destroying her.

 

Then how? Surely Zudarra hadn't been bitten by a werewolf in the tent. They would have noticed such a thing earlier. There weren't weregoblins as far as he knew. Some weapon contaminated with a monster's blood, some accursed artifact?

 

Did it matter?

 

Would he ever see Zudarra again? He choked on that question, airlessly, in silence. Saraven lashed out at the Breton's knee with a low kick, turned on his heel and sprinted away, aiming to make an arc around the beast's position.  Sabine's knee turned and she went down.  She sprang up again with lightning speed but did not follow. The werewolf was chewing through the bindings on its ankles, and as she saw it, there was a good chance it would be barreling after her instead of the Dunmer several seconds from now.  She could follow him and risk the monster, or she could give him the pause he desperately needed.  Crimson eyes flicked toward the exit, weighing her options. She scowled.

  
  


The rope snapped. Zudarra growled, a thunderous rumble reverberating from deep in her chest, and scrambled up to all fours. She could smell blood from one direction, but a flash of movement caught her eye from the other. _ Prey!  _ The thought was more instinct than language. She lunged at the Dunmer, jaws snapping.

 

Saraven evaded the werewolf's jaws easily, spinning to face the room. Now he had the thing that had been Zudarra, and he had the enemy that had been stalking them since their first Guild job. He dared not let the vampire escape again; he dared not let the werewolf get its enormous teeth into his chainmail. It didn't have to break the metal links to break his bones.

 

Well, dreadful benefit, she clearly did not need healing now. Saraven risked letting the magicka go as he backed rapidly up, splaying the fingers of his empty left hand. Bruises and numb, frozen flesh smoothed out suddenly. He still felt thirst, but now he was healed.

 

The monster's heart thundered in his ears, not only with threat but also with promise. Saraven gritted his teeth as he realized that he responded to it with lust, as a thing on which he might feed.  _ No. No. No. _

 

He darted past the werewolf again and charged the other vampire, sword held low in his hand, prepared to swipe at her throat. Sabine evaded, parried. Revenge could wait; she had to escape. 

 

The werewolf nearly skidded across the floor as she realized the thing she had been chasing was gone. She whirled around, forehead and nose wrinkling in a snarl and sprinted at the vampires on all fours. She moved with incredible speed, could probably outpace a horse for a short burst, but still was not faster than the eye could track. Certainly not as fast as a vampire.  The Breton flitted to her right, following the wall, to get around Saraven and run to the exit.

 

Saraven ran after her. The muscles in his legs were actually starting to ache as the bases of his teeth did, a brand new experience for him since the change. Zudarra had told him, and he had to this point certainly believed that vampires did not ever tire.

 

She had tried to take Zudarra from him. She would try it again if he let her get away. She had to die now, here.

 

He raised a hand and cast his lightning at her as she ran for the doorway. All he had to do was slow her down enough for the beast to catch up. Agony ripped through the vampire when the lightning hit and her spasming muscles tripped her up. She went down hard, rolled, daedric weapon flying out of her hands.

 

Zudarra was on her. Long jaws snapped down on the vampire's neck and head and the werewolf jerked the body up, savagely shaking her. Fangs penetrated flesh and bitter blood flooded Zudarra's mouth.  _ Not right! Not prey!  _ Sabine screamed as she was flailed, more frost spraying Zudarra's right shoulder in a blind attempt to hurt her. The jaws jerked shut with a crunch, the body fell limp, and the werewolf's yellow eyes widened as the corpse crumbled to ash in her mouth, falling out of her teeth like sand.

 

She shook her head, long tongue licking the roof of her mouth to clear away the foul taste. The fur of her right shoulder and upper arm was clumped up and frozen, and it hurt. The pain enraged her. The loss of her kill enraged her. After a moment of confused sniffing at the ground where ashes had fallen, the werewolf's head jerked up to glare at Saraven. She rose up on her hind legs, keeping the injured right arm close to her body, but splaying the claws of her left hand. Lips pulled back over glistening fangs, sending ripples through the furred skin of her muzzle. Frothing spittle dripped from her black lips and she snarled, ears flattened.

 

Saraven stared back, eyes wide, as he backed up, leaning on the wall with one arm. His daedric blade was now out in the hall. It didn't matter. No way in any daedric hell would he lift that weapon against her. Not even as this creature. Not even now.

 

"Zudarra," he said, and threw the steel sword away. It clattered on the stone floor. It hadn't been good for much anyway, really.

 

_ Don't run. She may attack anyway but she will certainly pursue if you run. _

 

The werewolf's head followed the movement of the sword and then turned back to Saraven, yellow eyes cold and uncomprehending.  There was no trace of intelligence, no trace of Zudarra there. She dropped forward, using her arm as a leg while still favoring the other. Her nostrils flared as she scented him, catching scents – Khajiit, human, horse – that she did not recognize beyond the fact that they were prey.

 

He held quite still as she sniffed at him, daring to hope, but he saw no recognition. Nothing at all. Saraven could no longer feel the physical sinking sensation in his gut. He would have to settle for the feeling of his heart breaking instead.

 

He was not prey. He stank of death, like the other. The wolf huffed and turned and broke into a three-legged gallop into the hall, following the faint trace of other prey that Saraven had brought in with him.

 

He ran after her, catching up the sword and sheathing it as he went. She had been sniffing him, looking for – what? Some other scent? She'd killed the other one readily enough.

 

_ Because the other one attacked her. _

 

_ Narial. I'm not alive, but he is. She's hunting. _

 

He had to stop her from getting there. At best the horses would bolt, and then he would have to try and defend his thrall from this creature twice either of their size, and -

 

_ The sun, damn it. I've spent what I had inside me and if I go out there I will burn. _

 

The thundering heart in front of him suggested a solution to both those problems.

 

_ No. No. No. _

 

What if he did it, took more from her than a Khajiit could survive losing, and then she suddenly changed back, died in his arms? He would hate himself if Narial died under those fangs, but it would be a long cold eternity without Zudarra.

 

_ I am in control. I have to be. _

 

She had just burst into the room of the cave where the first vampires had died and the thin shaft of sunlight fell across a patch of grass. Saraven put on a desperate burst of speed and hurled himself at the werewolf's back, leaping from the floor and throwing an arm around the hairy throat. The werewolf growled when the weight suddenly hit her back and she tossed herself aside in a roll to dislodge him.

 

He clung stubbornly. The last little puff of air was forced out of his lungs as she crushed him against the floor, and he felt little bones in his chest snap before she came back up again on three legs. He was no stranger to broken ribs. He hung on, clambering higher on the beast's back.

 

"I'm sorry," he said into the shaggy pointed ear, and fastened his teeth into her throat.

 

The beast howled as fangs penetrated flesh.  He tried in vain to soothe her, to draw a numbing curtain around that feral crazed mind, but it didn't work. It was like trying to smother a fire with a handkerchief. Blood burst across his tongue and down his throat and then he had to fight down the tide of ecstasy even as he struggled to hold on. It was life. It was power. It lacked the burning heat of daedra, but it was immortal blood.

 

She thrashed her head and snapped her jaws but could not reach his arm from that angle. Zudarra stood on her hind legs abruptly, reaching behind with her left arm. Long claws snagged chainmail and her fingers clenched down on his shoulder.  He held on tighter, his strength growing as he drank, tissues filling out, muscles swelling with new strength. There was so much LIFE in the thing, such a vastness of vitality as he had never touched. To even think of letting go was obscenity.

 

She rolled him again, slamming up against a wall at the end of it, snorting and snarling savagely all the while. Still he hung on, feeling things inside him break and heal, snap and mend as he drank. Then she bounded for the exit tunnel, banging into the rickety old gate as she shoved her way out from the narrow opening. It was a few steps into the sunlight that she faltered and stumbled forward. 

 

Saraven hardly knew himself until they were out in the sun, the light touching his naked face bringing him to himself in startlement. He did not burn; the creature's blood now protected him; but she was falling. He withdrew his fangs and let go, dropped free, rolled away from the werewolf and up to his knees as he looked wildly around.

  
  


She whined, legs trembling beneath her, eyes rolling up at the pale circle of Secunda hanging in a cloudless sky. Her left hind leg gave out on her next step and she went down hips-first, still supporting herself with the one quivering arm. Saraven  stared uncomprehending from moon to wolf and back.

 

The werewolf turned her lowered head to look at him, back heaving as she panted. Her ears had sagged but her eyes were no less intense than they had been when she glared at him before. She growled weakly. Finally her arm gave out and she collapsed heavily down.

 

The werewolf lay breathing raggedly with her eyes closed for several moments, and then a wave of color rippled across her pelt as gray fur and darker gray stripes and dapples painted themselves on her backside, soft cream on her face and the insides of her limbs. Her body shrunk as it happened and bones could be heard shifting inside, her limbs twitching involuntarily as things popped into place.

 

He stared back in horror and confusion. Only when the tail started to look narrow and soft again did he realize what was happening. Saraven scrambled to her side, scooping her into his lap as he let the magicka go. The blue spiral rose up, and blood puffed into dust as the wound in her throat closed.  It was all over much quicker than the original transformation and within seconds he cradled a tabby Khajiit  against his chest, one hand holding her head against his shoulder. Her pulse was faint but her ribs expanded against him as she breathed.

 

"I'm so sorry," he whispered into the top of her head, lips moving against the soft fur. "I love you."

 

Her blood no longer tempted him. It had changed as she changed. The strong heart was quiet now, and that was his fault, his doing. He had made her weak to make himself strong, the thing he had sworn to himself that he would never do again.

 

A drop of water dampened the top of Zudarra's head. Saraven was aware of another tracing a cold path down his cheek, but he did not understand what was happening. It had been too many years since he had wept.


	13. Chapter 13

She was fighting the darkness. One moment she had been chained to a chair, and then she'd been dreaming of formless fury and pain, and now she could feel Saraven's arms encircling her. Zudarra knew him by his smell and was comforted.  Whatever that had been, it was only a nightmare. Her arms twitched, wanting to touch him, but they were too heavy for her to raise.

 

“Sar...” she croaked, eyes cracking open. Her face was smushed against his chainmail but she could see his face from below when her eyes rolled up. One hand curled against his chest, fingers twitching.

 

"We'll get you to Narial. There's water in the saddlebags," he said hoarsely, and healed her again, fingers stroking the fur on her cheek. He was running low on power. Saraven slid his right arm under her legs and lifted her very carefully as he stood. He was as strong as he had ever been now. It was easy.

 

“What happened?” she whispered hoarsely. Her throat hurt so badly and she was too woozy to make sense of her surroundings other than Saraven. Disjointed memories flashed through her mind – jaws clenching down around undead flesh, ash in her mouth, slipping a ring onto her finger, kneeling helplessly as the black-haired vampire fed on her. But mostly the thoughts were vague impressions of a dream unremembered.

 

"The vampire that escaped took you," he said. "She brought you back here, to the place where we killed her sire. She had bound you and you just... burst your bonds. You changed. You destroyed her with tooth and claw." The necessity of forming words restored his composure. He turned to the right of the doorway, away from where the horses had been last time, and raised his voice in a shout, pressing Zudarra's ears against his mail to protect them. The sound resonated through his chest, the only time he had to draw breath.

 

"NARIAL!"

 

There was a distant whinny in response. Saraven turned toward the sound even as he heard the Imperial shout back,

 

"I'm here!"

 

He walked quickly, trying to keep track of Zudarra's pulse and search for that distant irregular one at the same time. They were beside a stream in a thicket, the three horses staked out around the roots of a great oak that had already shed its leaves. They were nosing through the leaves for late grasses. Ves nickered at him as he caught scent of Saraven. Shadow blew unhappily, stamping one feathered hoof. Narial lowered his hand from the gelding’s neck as he turned to watch them approach, frowning.

 

"Oh, no. Is she alive?"

 

"Yes, but weak. The vampire is dead. Get her some water."

 

 _No part of his explanation made any sense,_ Zudarra thought, brows furrowing against the Dunmer's chest as he knelt to lay her against the tree, arm around her shoulders. Narial turned to rummage in the saddlebags. Saraven felt her tense up – she did not want to be mothered over– but he was afraid that if he took his arm away she would fall.

 

 _Fangs sinking into flesh. Bitter blood. Ash._ She managed to raise one hand to hold her forehead, eyes screwing shut at the bizarre, dreamlike memories. She let her arm drop across her chest and Zudarra's eyes snapped open and down when her arm brushed her own fur. Her clothes were in shreds and her armor was missing. Her eyes widened, jaw dropping with horror and she jerked to look up at Saraven's face.

 

“What happened?” she repeated with force, still rasping. Narial passed Saraven a waterskin.

 

"Easy, girl," he said. "Drink. I'll tell you what I know." He held the skin bottle to her lips and Zudarra took the waterskin from him. She could do that much, at least. She gulped water down greedily as he spoke. "You were in chains and not really conscious when I got here. She made me drop my sword and then attacked me, and we were fighting for - " Several seconds, probably. It seemed longer in the moment, but a duel between vampires would always be very short. "- I don't know, not long. You were too weak to move and then you transformed into a wolf-thing and it attacked us both. It didn't know me, and I was afraid it was coming after Narial and the horses when it went to run for daylight, and... it was a long run, getting here. I couldn't go out in the sun. I had to stop it as best I could."

 

She vaguely remembered the vampire had fed from her, and then she'd been unconscious for some indeterminate length of time, that was why she was so dehydrated now. Zudarra pulled the water away from her lips long enough gasp for breath and wince at the discomfort of swallowing too much too fast. Then she let her head drop back against the Dunmer, eyes closing.

 

“Saraven, that doesn't...” She frowned, shaking her head slowly. It looked more like she was letting it loll back and forth. She remembered dark fur crawling across a too-long snout, her mouth filling up with sharp fangs. She touched her mouth with her fingers and found that everything was normal.

 

“The ring!” She said, jerking up, raising both her hands in front of her face. It was gone. “I found a ring that looked like a wolf... but it's not here now.” She looked up at Saraven, lost and confused. Those memories were real. They hadn't been a dream. She felt a jolt to her heart when her eyes landed on his face. Something about his expression didn't seem right, as if he were in pain.

 

"You found a ring that looked like a wolf and you put it on your finger?" he said, staring down at her. He was not sorry to delay any explanation of what he had done.

 

It might have fallen off in the cave, burst from the wolf's claw if it had been made from flimsy materials, but he had a terrible feeling that was not what had happened at all. Something was niggling at his memory, a tale long forgotten.

 

Among the acolytes of Meridia the stories of the artifacts of other daedra are sometimes told as a caution, as a warning…

 

Behind him, Narial loomed over them, standing guard. His face was calm as he listened to them, eyes trained on the forest.

 

She raised a hand to touch Saraven’s shoulder, brows furrowing in concern. Parts of his story didn’t add up. _I couldn't go out in the sun._ Yet here he was. Had she rampaged for so long that it was tomorrow? Had he left to feed before returning for her?

 

Her expression wrung him. There was no evading that. Not at all.

 

"I drank from the wolf," he said quietly. "It carried me out into the sun, but Secunda is still out. When it saw the moon it changed back into you."

 

Zudarra moved her palm to cup his face and her own expression softened, ears sinking. Perhaps she did remember being bitten a second time... at least, she remembered something clinging to her back as she thrashed and tried to throw it off.

 

“You did what you had to do, Saraven,” she said. Zudarra had never once considered that Saraven might harm her, intentionally or otherwise. If he fed from her that meant it had been the only way, and honestly, she was not concerned about it. Especially not in the face of everything else that had happened.

 

Relief washed over him. His knees felt literally weak under him, a mortal thing that he had long forgotten. He leaned down to press his lips to the top of her head. Her face heated, ears flicking when Saraven brushed them. She didn't protest. He was aware that he was behaving strangely, had been since she changed back, but he did not know why. He only knew that he felt whelmed by emotions that it was customarily his habit to keep under tight control. She let her hand drop again and rubbed at the spot on her finger where the ring had been.

 

“It had to have been cursed,” she said distantly. “Will you heal me? Lycanthropy is spread through disease...” The sinking feeling in her gut told her that it wouldn't do anything. If she'd already transformed once, trying to cure the disease was pointless.

 

"If you have absorbed an artifact of the Hunter, spells will make no difference," Saraven said quietly. He spent the cure and another heal all the same, because she asked it. In that moment he would have refused her nothing it was in his power to give. Zudarra felt both spells wash over her, although she didn't feel any different afterward. The blood loss was something a heal of his caliber wouldn't be able to fix; she was as healthy as she was going to get.

 

If she had been cursed with an incurable form of lycanthropy, she would just have to wait until the next full moon to find out. She did not know exactly when that was, but odds are there would be one tomorrow.

 

She pushed gently at Saraven's arm, tensing and bracing herself against the roots of the oak to sit herself up, but she slumped back against them instead. His hovering arm was there to catch her, lowering her gently.

 

“Maybe we should camp here for the day,” she sighed tiredly, letting her eyes close again.

 

"Don't be ridiculous. You should be in -"

 

She should be in the woods. Away from people. In case it happened again. Saraven bit his own tongue.

 

"Maybe we should," he said.

 

"I'll get a bed roll for her," Narial said. Saraven felt irrationally annoyed with him.

 

"You're taking this awfully well," he snapped. The Imperial recoiled, hand on the blanket roll that was buckled to the back of the saddle.

 

"I – " he stuttered into silence at Saraven's glare, eyes stunned and hurt. "I'm sorry."

 

Saraven shook his head. _I am not right. Something's not right here._

 

_Pull yourself together, Saraven Gol. Both of them need you to be calm, be strong, not do whatever the hells you are doing right now._

 

"No, I'm sorry, Narial. Thank you." He reached out to gently soothe and reassure, letting the younger man feel the sincerity of his apology without overwhelming him with emotions. Narial relaxed, the taut line of his shoulders stooping as he turned to get the blanket roll and lay it out beside Zudarra.

 

Maneuvering herself into the bed roll felt like a huge undertaking all by itself so Zudarra allowed Saraven to help her over and into it, and then she curled up against the soft fur lining. Saraven could see that her breast was exposed by the ripped armor padding, it just didn't mean anything to him other than that she might be cold. He tucked her carefully into the bedroll, covering her for warmth rather than concerned about modesty.

 

“And someone fetch my armor,” she muttered, closing her eyes.

 

"We'll get it," Saraven said, although he was damned if she was going to be wearing armor any time in the next day or so.

 

"I can," Narial spoke up. "You stay and watch her."

 

Saraven lifted his head. "There are dead bodies down the side passage inside. Don't look to your right, understand? It's going to stink, but don't look."

 

Narial nodded and disappeared into the trees, leading Cassy with him. Of course it would be a lot easier to put the armor onto the horse than try to carry it all back by hand, and he would have a weapon arm free, for all the good that would do if another vampire appeared.

 

Saraven sat beside her, sheathed sword at his hip, guarding her jealously now that the worst had nearly happened and nothing really needed to be done.

 

Every time she felt sleep drag at her Zudarra remembered how effortlessly the vampire had taken control of her mind, how her memories had been opened and replayed like a scene from a book, to be used against Saraven. It disgusted her. It was completely different from what she had experienced with him in the final moments of the Crisis. Saraven brushed her mind once, thinking to offer comfort, and found horror and disgust and evil memory, and he realized what the other vampire had done; and he withdrew at once, turning his face away to hide another accursed tear. He regretted anew that he had ever forced Zudarra to see Narial's mind, that he had ever done something that _she_ would do.

 

Instead he waited beside her, one hand resting in her hair as lightly as a feather. She was almost asleep once or twice when sudden terror jolted her awake, her hands flying to her face to touch her ears and her muzzle to make sure her body was still her own. Each time she jerked awake he stroked her head gently, without speaking, listening to her heart gradually calm again.

 

Zudarra kept her eyes closed, although she was aware of being petted. Had she been more alert she might have chided herself for enjoying it. She was not a small child. She was not some sentimental idiot. But between every crashing wave of terror she rolled gently on a sea of love. Zudarra couldn't deny his touch.

 

 _You finally have what you wanted all along,_ Zudarra thought. _And your life may be ending just as you found it._ A tear leaked from beneath her closed lid, running the short distance from her nose to the bed. She reached out to take Saraven's hand, moving it to cradle her dry cheek with her own palm resting over it. She pressed down on him tightly.

 

"Sh, sh," he said softly as she seized his hand. Another tear. Today was a day for them, it seemed. He wiped away the dampness with the fingers of his other hand. "I've got you. I'm here."

 

He did not at all understand what he felt now. He had thought himself forever cold, moved only to thought, capable of things like love or hate only with a long, long run up to either. He and Zudarra had had a long run at it, oh yes, plenty of time for that realization to creep up on him. And now he felt as he had felt when he was young, and mortal, and alive, and that made no sense at all. He didn't even have glands for that sort of thing working any more! It wasn't fair!

 

It wasn't fair?

 

Since when had he ever expected anything to be fair? That wasn't how his world had ever worked.

 

He felt confused and frustrated and desperately worried, and the new blood in his muscles seemed to quiver inside him, ready for violent release. Instead he sat quietly and watched Zudarra, and when he felt his face begin to change he looked away because he could not stop it.

 

Narial returned with the armor after some time had passed. He was still calm. "I didn't look," he told Saraven, and went to transfer the armor from Cassy to Shadow.

 

Zudarra’s hand slipped from his as she eventually drifted off for good, breath slowing, pulse evening out. He could hear Narial pacing around them in a rough circle, occasionally pausing to talk to the horses. Eventually he came and built up a fire nearby, when the sun had set and it was beginning to grow colder. Saraven did not feel able to move away from Zudarra even for a second, nailed in place by that roll of conflicting emotions; he broadcast his gratitude and warmth silently, without moving, and felt rather than saw Narial's smile. The night mostly passed off, somehow, and eventually he heard her heart begin to beat faster as she climbed toward wakefulness. Saraven stroked her hair one last time and sat back against the tree, giving her a little space in case it should be sudden.

 

* * *

 

Dark forests and the taste of blood filled her dreams. Sometimes she thought herself a vampire again but she would look down at herself and see the long black claws of the wolf. Her ears and face twitched as she dreamed, but none were so horrible as to wake her up.

 

When she finally did wake the sky was gray and star speckled and someone had built up a fire which had turned to smoldering embers now. After a few disoriented moments she realized that it was probably tomorrow's dawn getting ready to break. The red sphere hanging beyond wisps of cloud startled her until Zudarra realized Masser was not actually full. It was still waxing. Secunda was hidden by trees somewhere near the horizon.

 

Her stomach ached. She was still weak as she climbed out of bed, holding the ruined scrap of fabric at her shoulder. The deep shadow of the trunk almost hid Saraven as he watched her get up and stagger over to the horses to fetch an apple from her saddle bag. She pushed Shadow's big nose out of the way when he swung his head around to snuffle at the apple he thought was for him, then came back to sit on her bed. She looked down at a scrap of sleeve clinging to her arm still and shook it off into the fire with a look of disgust.

 

"Doesn't seem like much," he said, breaking the silence. His voice seemed rougher than usual, and he swallowed to clear it. "I'll get you some jerky, shall I?" He set the waterskin beside her and got up, stretching his arms out in front of him.

 

“Yeah, sure. I just grabbed the first thing I saw,” she said tiredly, facing the fire cross-legged and hunching forward slightly with her hand still holding her padding together against her shoulder. She remembered that Saraven had been there stroking her hair at every point she was wakeful enough to remember, and that made her feel funny... a little guilty, a bit embarrassed.

 

“You wouldn't happen to have any spare clothes?” she asked dryly over her shoulder as he walked away. They hadn't expected to be out overnight, so Zudarra hadn't brought any clothes and doubted if anyone else had.

 

"I've got a linen undershirt under my padding," Narial said. "Better than nothing?"

 

It was uncannily diplomatic for Narial, Saraven thought. There was no way Saraven's clothes would fit the Khajiit's powerful body – a shirt that fit Saraven would probably be a pant leg for Zudarra – and further, Narial's would be warm. Now he nodded, and Narial started stripping his cuirass and pauldrons in a businesslike way, laying them on the end of the bedroll.

 

“Thank you,” Zudarra said somewhat curtly to Narial. Everyone was rallying around her, Narial literally giving her the shirt off his back... Her tail tip twitched against her leg where it was curled. She kept her face neutral as he handed the shirt to her, and quickly slipped it on over her head after hauling off and tossing her ruined gambeson onto the fire. The flame had rekindled itself to eat her scrap of sleeve and now a bright line crawled across the cotton, blackening the edges before the flame swallowed it up. The shirt smelled of Narial and it was warm against her fur. It was tight across her chest and shoulders, but she could do worse.

 

She took a bite of the apple, her teeth digging into the hard flesh vaguely reminiscent of her mauling the vampire. Zudarra felt rested but couldn't shake off the cotton in her brain. She knew from past experience that it would take a day or two to recover from blood loss. She hated that.

 

“I have to get to the Mage's Guild, or maybe a bookstore,” she said quietly after swallowing the first bite. “I don't know when the next full moon is... But Masser is looking pretty big up there, and Secunda probably has a day or two left.”

 

"The lady at the bookstore in Kvatch was helpful enough," Saraven said. "If Narial's willing to go I could send him with some drakes and have him ask for books on werewolves. Bring back some clothes, too. For now - "

 

Digging through the saddlebags, Saraven found a cooked potato and the bag of salt pork and brought them back to Zudarra. She took the foodstuffs from him and set them in her lap.

 

“I am well enough to travel back,” Zudarra protested, a little testily, looking up at Saraven with one ear turned aside.

 

"Yes," Saraven said quietly. "But the moon will soon be full."

 

Beyond him, Narial paused, pauldron in hand, and looked from one to the other.

 

“Well I can't live in the forest like an animal for the rest of my life!” Zudarra snapped. She realized as she said it that she was being unreasonable, fist clenching around the apple until her claws dug into it. But damn it, how else was she supposed to react? If she were really a werewolf she may as well jump off a high cliff right here and now. There was no point in trying to salvage her life.

 

There were not going to be any magical potions delivered from the hands of a Mad God this time.

 

“We don't even know that I'm – I wasn't infected,” she said, ripping her gaze from him to stare sullenly at the fire.

 

"Then we should wait until we do know," Saraven said. "Maybe it was a once-only ring. Maybe it'll never happen again. If the moon rises full and nothing happens, then by all means, let's get back to town. But give me a few hours, Zudarra. We can't loose the wolf on Kvatch, and if it does rise again, let it be when Narial is away. I can slow it down, keep it out here."

 

He hated the idea of feeding on the wolf again. He was starting to have an inkling that its blood might have done this to him, stripped his ability to dampen what he felt even if it did not strip his ability to control his thirst. These were things that he did feel; they were real; but normally they did not overwhelm him. The effect seemed to be gradually fading as the blood was slowly spent.

 

Still cold, still unbreathing, he felt alive. That was shocking and wrong. It hurt him.

 

_Maybe I can bait it. Run it out toward some other prey._

 

And what exactly did he sacrifice to an appetite like that? It wouldn't stop for deer or rabbits. It had been tracking Narial. Dread beat at the back of his mind with every thud of Zudarra's heart as he listened.

 

Zudarra sat with flattened ears, arms crossed over her chest. She would have sulked for longer but hunger pains forced her to uncross her arms and unwrap the pork Saraven had given her. One of the horses snorted and she glanced that way. She distantly remembered something from last night... a deep, maddening desire for flesh. It was not like vampiric bloodlust. It was more an urge to rend something in her jaws, not dissimilar to Zudarra's drive to destroy her opponents. The wolf needed to hunt. Not even the horses would be safe around her.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The moons of Nirn are complicated and their cycles vary by game, and the connection between werewolves and the moons has never been fully explained. To understand the cycles of the moons we used this post as a reference, which is based on Oblivion: https://www.imperial-library.info/content/phases-moon#comment-21485
> 
> If we assume that either full moon causes the transformation, this means that werewolves of Tamriel may transform during the day because Secunda can rise during the day, while Masser rises only at night. It also means that werewolves on Nirn would be transforming more frequently than our Earth werewolves. Because Masser and Secunda’s cycles do not align and Secunda rises at a different time every day, this makes predicting the cycles of the moon much more troublesome for the average person. 
> 
> For the sake of this story, we assumed that the following conditions must be met to trigger a transformation:
> 
> 1\. At least one moon is full.  
> 2\. That moon reaches its highest point in the sky.
> 
> The transformation ends if the werewolf satiates its hunger or if it has been seriously weakened.
> 
> – Isaac

After a painfully frank discussion, it was decided that they would find some isolated place to trap Zudarra until the full moon had passed. They would leave behind some supplies, but Narial would take the three horses back to Kvatch.  Saraven’s head grew a little clearer as the hours passed, and he was more and more certain that it was the wolf's blood that had affected him. He was worriedly aware that he was still not entirely himself, and that made him scrutinize every action, every word more carefully all the time, rendering discussion more awkward and full of pauses. 

 

Zudarra knew that there was a safe fort nearby. Matter of fact, she herself had killed a nest of trolls living inside just a week ago. Nothing else should have moved in during that time. It was only a few hours South from their present location. Dawn broke as they rode, and Zudarra found herself constantly glancing at the pale little orb that climbed the sky. The higher it rose, the more her leaded heart seemed to sink. She didn’t know much about lycanthropy, but she was certain the transformations happened when at least one of the moons reached the highest point in the sky when full.  That didn’t give them much time.

 

The only thing left standing of the old fort was a half-crumbled tower. There were impressions in the ground where other buildings had once stood, but they were very hard to see through the tall, brown grass.

 

They bid farewell to Narial and descended down moss-slicked steps into the subterranean level, taking care to avoid kicking bones and troll waste. The outer doors had been torn off the hinges so this place had been a home to wildlife for many years. It stank  – an old carcass lay in the hallway, a shriveled pile of green fur and bones. Scavengers had tore the troll apart and cleaned it of any meat.

 

Zudarra led Saraven to what had been a mess hall with heavy iron doors. They'd been left ajar, and the inside was just as filthy with signs of animal life, including a huge pile of dried grasses, leaves, and shredded fabrics in one corner of the room. More bones were strewn around it, most of them bearing deep gnaw marks. There was another troll corpse there, lying among the rotted clothes and rusted armor of some unfortunate traveler. This room smelled even worse than outside.

 

At least Saraven could see nothing wrong with the ruin.  There were no signs of life larger than a rat beyond those walls, and i t relieved him to have Narial gone, one less thing to worry about. He was not surprised by the troll carnage. Zudarra had been here, after all. He was able to disregard the smell more easily than she; it was not a congenial place, but he had no ability to viscerally react to it even now. 

 

Zudarra threw their bag of provisions on a table, put her hands on her hips, and looked around. There was a hearth at one end of the room and empty sconces along the walls. Most of the furniture was broken and scattered on the floor, but Zudarra would not want to sit on any of the benches that were intact. Aside from the thick layer of dust, it was all peppered with mold and probably saturated with troll urine. She sighed heavily, making a disgusted sound on the exhale.

 

“ Are you going to bar the door?” Zudarra asked without looking at Saraven. She sounded slightly accusing.

 

“Yes," he said simply and went and put the bar across.  Could the wolf unbar a door? It – she, he must say she, knowing it would turn back into Zudarra. She had not seemed clever. But it had been a brief, fraught few moments that he had been near her in that state, and she had not been presented with any puzzle that could not be easily solved with brute force.

 

He could probably keep her away from the door. The beast was strong, but he was by far the faster. He just had to keep taunting and prodding her enough to keep her chasing him around the tower. It would be a long night, but he thought he could probably manage it.

 

Zudarra sighed again, shoulders slumping as she turned around to watch him.

 

“ Saraven, maybe you should go out,” she said. Her irritated expression had softened to one of minor concern.

 

He shook his head. "If it happens, I might be able to keep her away from the door. Once she's out it gets much harder to keep her contained. I'm not afraid of what she'll do to  _ me _ ."

 

“ Well, I am...” Zudarra said quietly, glancing away. In fact, he was the only person she would truly care if she injured. She moved over to the hearth. The raised ledge was a little bit cleaner than the rest off the room because it was off the floor and out of the way. No fire had burned in it in centuries. She used her foot to swipe away dust and sat down on it, stretching her legs out in front of her, clasped hands between her knees. Her ears were down, not in anger but malaise.

 

She could feel her own heart beating faster in fearful anticipation. It wouldn't be much longer now, if she were going to transform.

 

"How much of that do you remember?" he asked, pacing in front of the door with measured steps.  _ Tak. Tak. Tak.  _

 

Had the beast been holding back somehow, fled because she did not wish to kill him? It had not seemed so at the time. He had seen no recognition in the yellow eyes at all.

 

She shrugged.

 

“ It felt like a dream. I couldn't remember it much at all until some things you said jogged my memory. Even now, it doesn't feel like it really happened.”

 

She realized that she ought to remove her clothes. Nudity had never bothered Zudarra before, but undressing in a barracks or to bathe in the river was a totally different situation from just sitting there naked in an empty room with Saraven, and in the middle of a filthy troll nest on top of that. It would also, in some small way, be as if she were admitting to herself that this was really happening.

 

Zudarra didn't believe that it was. It just couldn't be true. They were all going to have a laugh and feel very stupid tomorrow.

 

She grunted irritably, stood, and began peeling off her clothing without warning him.  Saraven glanced over curiously, long enough to register what was happening, then went on pacing and growing increasingly morose.  She draped her torn pants back on the hearth to sit on and folded Narial's shirt over her lap. With her fur to insulate her Zudarra was not cold, but her nakedness was uncomfortable and she sat tense and drawn up, arms close to her body and legs pressed together.

 

Time stretched on. Zudarra’s heart rate had been elevated nearly all day, and now the incessant  _ thud thud thud _ was the only thing she could hear over her own shallow breathing. Her heart suddenly jumped.

 

_ Calm down. You're spooking yourself.  _ It wouldn't stop hammering. Her chest ached. Zudarra clutched at her heart and leaned forward, jaw dropping open. It was just like before. An intense aura of power from an unknown source raised the fur of her spine. It pressed down on her, invaded her. Then the itching began in her gums and the aches in her joints. She looked up at him from her doubled-over position, terror filling her hazel eyes.

 

“ Saraven–”

 

His head snapped around at her voice. There was that one frozen instant when their eyes met, hazel and crimson. He couldn't tell her it was all right. It manifestly was not all right at all. But he had to say something.

 

"I'm here," said Saraven roughly. He backed up with his back to the door as the transformation began, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

 

She whined at the pain of it as bones popped and shifted, as her claws drew involuntarily from their sheaths and blackened. It was all the worse this time because she knew what was happening, even maddened by terror she knew she was losing herself. She pressed her growing palms against her cheeks, fingers clenching on the long snout that drew away from her face. Nothing could stop her expanding skull.

 

“ No, no, no!” she screamed, but the words became garbled as the long teeth pushed out of her gums and her tongue thickened, lengthened along with the rest. A guttural roar ripped from her throat and she let her hands drop away. Zudarra fought desperately to hang on but hunger subsumed her, instinct obliterated what little rational thought she was capable of at that moment. Shadow rippled across her pelt and in mere minutes Zudarra was gone, replaced by a towering beast that turned her yellow eyes on the vampire. Black nostrils flared at a familiar scent which enraged her. She growled, dark hackles raised, splaying and flexing her daggerlike claws.

 

She jerked into action, leaping over a table and scattering debris under her paws as she crashed toward Saraven on all fours.

 

He crouched, waiting, and then dove forward to roll between the beast's paws, kicking upward at her chest with an armored boot in a deliberate provocation. He wasn't sure how hard to risk. He might not have hit hard enough. That thought occurred to him as he emerged under one furry shoulder and dove aside.

 

"So you remember me, do you?"

 

The kick didn't appear to do anything but enrage her further. The werewolf's long claws scrabbled against stone as she changed direction to pursue him, snarling as she snapped at him on the floor.

 

Saraven did a very undignified but very rapid crab-walk back out of reach, then kipped back to his feet, scuttling backward just fast enough to stay out of reach. The beast continued snapping as she chased after him, jaws closing on empty air each time. He ought to be able to think of a better way to do this, but all he could think of was Zudarra, trapped somewhere inside that thing – sleeping? Dead, for now? At least if she barely remembered it she probably was not watching trapped and horrified. That idea suffused him with horror, dulled his thoughts and reflexes. He slowed without realizing it, suddenly within range of the werewolf's paws.

 

She lunged with claws outstretched. Nearly four hundred pounds of muscle and bone slammed into the vampire, knocking him flat against the ground. Believing himself out of reach, Saraven was taken completely by surprise. His skull bounced against the stone floor, and there was one moment of agonized realization before the world winked out. The red eyes rolled upward and then shut as he went completely limp. 

 

He was unaware of the claws digging into his mail, into his padding, into his flesh, and then the werewolf clamped down on his head, fangs piercing the underside of his jaw and the back of his scalp. Cool blood washed over her tongue. The wolf growled. She shook him savagely, releasing her hands from his body to fling him into the air like a broken doll. He landed in a heap on the filthy floor and did not stir.

 

This thing was not living. It was not her prey. She turned, circled the room with her nose to the floor. She could still smell something living- Khajiit. Everything else was old, rotten and dead.

 

She came to the door, which smelled of vampire and mortal both. She drew up on her hind legs to bang on it with her palms, to scratch at it with her claws. She paced in front of it, dropping her nose to the fresher air that moved at the bottom of the door. The werewolf jumped at it again with an angry snarl, and this time she knocked against the bar that shut it. Cold yellow eyes glared at the bar for a moment. Then she mouthed at it, banged at it, and finally nosed it up far enough that it clattered down. She shoved her way out into the dark corridor, up and out into daylight and fresh air and a world awash with living scents. She panted as she sprinted across the rolling hills, slobbering tongue cradled in a bed of blood-slicked fangs.

 

It was not long before she came upon an interesting scent. Her fury at being tricked by false prey was abating but her need for flesh mounted every second. The werewolf paused at the top of a rise, lifting her muzzle to scent the wind. It carried smoke and the promise of mortal prey. Fields stretched out below her, and in the distance lay a sprawling farmstead of several buildings. Little white blobs were moving within a large fenced area.

 

She hurled herself down the slope, heart hammering furiously with anticipation, and bounded effortlessly over the wooden fence when she came to it. Sheep bleated and scattered but within seconds she had one in her jaws, snapping its neck with one powerful shake. Fresh, hot blood leaked over her tongue.

 

Her head jerked up in response to a shriek and a thud and the werewolf found herself staring eye to eye with an Imperial woman in a long skirt and smock. Strands of brown hair fell from the cloth headband that pushed her long hair back from her face. A bucket full of animal feed had dropped and spilled at her feet and she stood frozen in horror, her fists clenched in the fabric of her skirt at her thighs. She was standing on the other side of the fence near a gate, some fifty feet away. The main house sat on the top of a slope behind her, a large two story building of stone and plaster. There were other people in the distance, carrying supplies to and from various outbuildings. Some of them looked up after hearing the scream.

 

The wolf lunged at her, back claws kicking up dirt.

 

* * *

 

Afterward Saraven was never sure how long he lay inert. It couldn't have been long. Surely it could not have been long. The awareness of pain dragged him back toward consciousness. Something was horribly wrong with his lower jaw, stabbing agony, wetness, air moving through his mouth from below where it should not be able to enter. He moved slightly, and there was an answering pain in the top of his skull. He felt every inch bruised and aching, as though he had been tossed down a flight of stairs.

He closed and spread the fingers of his right hand, groggily calling up the magicka, then sat up with a jerk as his wounds began to heal. That caused him sudden dizziness and he doubled over his own lap for a second, fangs bared, eyes wide and blind. When he could see through the spots he healed himself again.

_ Zudarra! The wolf! _ The doors were open! He had been so stupid, so arrogant, and the creature had pushed the bar off the door after all and now she was gone. Saraven scrambled to his feet and ran. The scent of the thing was not hard to track, and now he had also to track the scent of his own blood. She must have mauled him and dropped him, uncaring whether he were unconscious or ashes.

And now she would be seeking prey. He put on a burst of desperate speed, hating that tears now stood in his eyes, unable to stop it at all.

She had gone so far already! He couldn't see the werewolf at all as he sprinted through the long grass, leaving a wake of shuddering and broken stems, moving too fast for mortal sight to pick him out.

She'd run for miles. How long had he been down? He couldn't spare the energy to swear. He needed it all to run. He topped a short rise and found himself looking at a sprawling farm: fields, barns, fences, sheep running in all directions -

The wolf, savaging something he couldn't quite see but that could not possibly be a sheep. Sheep did not wear brown linen. Saraven pounded down the hill, trying to coax more speed out of his legs, not even trying to be quiet now.

He was still more than a mile out.

 

* * *

 

The woman didn't have time to comprehend the agony of fangs piercing her flesh for long before her neck was snapped and the wolf was feeding, viciously ripping into her belly with tooth and claw. If Zudarra had been conscious she would have known that it was nothing like the pleasure a vampire experienced drinking blood. It was mindless frenzy, a ceaseless need to tear and destroy with her jaws. She was only vaguely aware of other people around her – two Imperial males and a Khajiit female had come running when they heard the scream and now they had stopped in their tracks. One of the men turned, ran toward the house screaming for help. The others were frozen, not knowing what to do, staring aghast at the mutilated corpse the monster sat hunched over.

The wolf yanked a bloody hunk of meat into the air, chewing messily and gulping as if starved. Her muzzle and neck were drenched in blood. She paused, suddenly aware of other scents, and turned to look at the others. That was all it took for both man and Khajiit to break into a sprint back toward the house. The wolf licked blood from her lips and darted after them.

_ No. No. No. No.  _ Saraven couldn't stop the litany of denial repeating over and over in his mind, desperate and useless. The rich smell of blood hit his nostrils when he was yards out, but he heard only one heart beating, the tremendous thundering pulse of the werewolf. The woman was already dead. He vaulted a dead sheep and sprinted after the monster, aware from the corner of his vision of the woman's staring eyes and gaping mouth above the horrible wounds in her body.

It was already too late for the Khajiit; he would never reach them in time. Saraven did not even try to check his speed as the hulking black-furred body grew larger and larger in his vision, preparing to plough into the wolf at uncanny speed before it could claim a third victim. 

Zudarra’s jaws closed around the Khajiit's neck from behind and they both went down together, maw clamping shut with a crunch. The Khajiit was dead immediately but when the wolf bounced back to her feet she shook the corpse for good measure, just to enjoy the sensation of her fangs grinding through flesh and the hot blood that filled her mouth. 

Saraven heard a heart stop in the moment before his dropped shoulder hit the werewolf's spine, sending her rolling across the ground with a startled yelp and flinging away the corpse. Her spine didn't break. It nearly broke his shoulder. He felt bone grinding on bone in that instant before she rolled away, and then he was stumbling to a halt in a cloud of dust and the tormenting odor of shed blood.

"Don't do this," he pleaded. He knew she wouldn't hear him. He couldn't stop himself. He wanted to grapple with her again even less, hated the thought of being half-mad with emotion from the creature's blood, but how did you stop something like this and not kill her? How? 

She had climbed up to all fours, head lowered and lips pulled back in a vicious snarl. Saraven set his teeth grimly and flung himself after her. She snapped at him, but the vampire was faster – he hooked an arm around her throat and hauled himself up her furry back. She thrashed to dislodge him. He hung on, arms around the bulging muscle at the base of her throat, prepared for her to roll and crush him again, but then he heard the strong heart jump and skip. 

Suddenly the wolf faltered, yellow eyes growing wide and she stumbled forward, no longer fighting him. It felt as though a fist were clenching down on her heart. Her joints ached with pressure, her muscles quivered as strength bled away.

Saraven let go as he realized what was happening, landing on his feet as he looked around wildly. At least he was rational enough to realize that they would have been seen, both of them, and no one must know. No one must return to the Legion with tales of Zudarra the Bloody transforming back from a ravenous monster that had slaughtered two people.

Two Imperials in homespun stood there holding pitchforks. One had tears streaking the dirt on his cheeks, hands shaking. The other was looking at them with the dead-eyed stare of a man who would never want to dream again. Saraven reached out toward both minds even as he moved between them and the first paroxysms of the change.

_ A pair of wolves killed them, rabid, mad, but wolves. Animals. Forget my face. Forget the beast. Sleep. Fall. _

He watched the two of them fold up gently into the dirt and turned to look behind him, face contorted with grief and horror.  The creature had dropped onto her forearms, writhing in pain as her bones shifted, as her long teeth slithered back into her gums. She whined pitifully, digging her claws into the ground as they grew small and clear. The second she was small enough to carry, Saraven scooped her up and ran. Gray and cream coloration raced across her fur, the hanging tail thinning as dark stripes banded its length once again.

She blinked as if just waking up, hazel chasing away gold across her irises. She found the world a blur around her and momentum pinning her to Saraven's chest. She struggled against him, confused and alarmed as if having just woken from a nightmare. The inside of her mouth tasted of blood.

"Be still," he said, without slowing down. He could not keep his voice from shaking even now, as the unbalancing blood was nearly spent. "It's Saraven. We need to be far from this place as fast as we can."

It was the second day in a row he had needed to run a long distance at speed, but this time he had the beast's blood still in his body, lending him greater energy as he sped through the long grass. Gods only knew when Narial would return. At least he could get her to her clothes, build a fire in that old hearth.

The implication of his words trudged sluggishly through Zudarra’s mind, but her tongue pushed against a string of meat between her teeth.

_ Teeth rending flesh. Blood in her mouth. Hot chunks of meat sliding down her throat. _

Zudarra forced her head aside, one hand digging into Saraven's mail. She started heaving.

He was approaching a small copse of trees, branches barren, brown and gold mounded up around their roots. A glance over his shoulder showed no glimpse of the farm at all. He turned aside, flinging up a cloud of dead leaves that rained down around them as he set Zudarra on her knees in the moss.

Brown liquid exploded from her mouth when her knees touched the ground and she fell forward on her palms, blood and bile and undigested chunks of human organ gushing across her tongue with every heave. When her stomach had emptied she continued to retch, and when that was over she sat there with head hanging, her entire body trembling as she breathed raggedly. Brown, frothy spittle dripped from her lips, down her chin. It flecked her wrists and the underside of her arms. She lifted her face, eyes rolling up to look at Saraven from the side, pained and brimming with tears.

“ Saraven,” she gasped. “What did I do?” Tears spilled down both cheeks.

Saraven bowed his head, resting on one knee. "I was not careful enough. I let her get too close and she knocked me down, hit my head. When I was up again she was gone. By the time I caught up two people were dead."

His voice still trembled as he spoke, guttural and harsh.

She sat back on her knees, head thrown back, hands digging into the fur of her thighs.

“ Oh gods,” she sobbed. “Oh gods, oh Nine!” She grabbed the fur at the back of her head and screamed.

Saraven looked up at the sound, listening to the jump in the furious throb of her heart as much as anything.  _ You did this. This was you. _ For a moment guilty misery subsumed him.

Then the wind picked up even as he watched, blowing leaves around her naked body, the cold pushing at his face insistently. He looked up to see the sky lowering. The cold, the rain were no threat to him, but they might be to her.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "We have to go on. I stole the memory from those who saw, but I don't know how long until the Legion knows."

Zudarra was still heaving desperately after she stopped screaming but her fists dropped and she allowed Saraven to gather her up without fighting against him, pliant in his hands. Cold raindrops began to patter down, driving into her like needles with Saraven's speed as he ran on, but she barely noticed.

_ I killed two people. I lost myself! It wasn't me! _

_ A shriek. A snap as she shook her jaws. Blood in her mouth. Death flooding her senses. _ She'd been a human woman, long brown hair, terrified eyes.

_ It was me! I did that! I killed someone with my own teeth! I ATE HER!  _ She keened in Saraven's arms, tears carving dark trails through her fur in a constant flow. Saraven had never seen her like this. Not even close. Every sob wrenched him as he ran. He did not know how to comfort her, or even if he should try. This was not a time for Shh, it's all right. It still was not all right. It might not ever be again.

Before she knew it darkness had engulfed them and they were back in the ruin. Zudarra was trembling in terror as much as from the damp and cold when he set her down gently back on the hearth by her clothes. Zudarra immediately sagged with her arm braced against the wall of the fireplace, filthy with old spiderwebs and black grime. She buried her face against her own arm, her other hand curling around her belly. She was distantly aware that she was crying like a child, that she was being unforgivably pathetic in front of Saraven but she couldn't stop herself. The rotten smell in the room made her stomach ache and Zudarra thought she surely would have vomited again if there had been anything left in her belly.

 

* * *

 

Falx Vitelli, a boy of only 17, quickly pulled back around the corner of the shed he'd been rounding when he saw the monstrous wolf crush Mahrazidi, their Khajiit farmhand, to the ground. Fingers digging into wood boards, he leaned out to watch his brother and father both crumple for no reason at all just before a strange Dunmer scooped up the changing beast and ran. He'd only caught a brief glimpse of gray fur and a long, thin tail before the pair simply blinked out of existence. He sank to the ground now, back against the wall, hot tears springing from his eyes.

He'd noticed the bloodied lump in front of the sheep pen wearing his sister's brown dress and now he quaked violently, arms around his knees, unable to force himself up to face the horror of what had happened.

He pressed his palms to his eyes. He screamed for what seemed like forever. Then he flew to his feet and raced down the path to where his father and brother lay, nearly blinded by tears, calling out to his father over and over again.

The days that followed would be the worst of his life.


	15. Chapter 15

Inside the tower Saraven watched Zudarra curl up like a burning beetle against the hearth, against the chill stone. Finally he couldn't stand it and he moved forward, picking up Narial's undershirt, reaching out to put his arm around her waist. With the other he pulled her in against him, head against his shoulder. He had not yet learned not to be wary of rejection; a week ago she would have recoiled against that gesture, and he was ready for that now. He would let her go rather than hurt her by holding on.

 

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry. But you've got to get dressed. It's too cold, and I can't warm you."

 

The chain links against her face and the nose-full of Saraven were almost enough to snap her out of it.  _ Pull yourself together, damn it. He can't see you like this. _ She took one long, shuddering breath and then another. She tensed in his arm before gently pushing away and taking the shirt from him, nodding once that she understood. She did not trust herself to speak.

 

He released her reluctantly, one hand brushing her cheek.

 

"I'll build a fire."

 

He sped upstairs to look for a tree that was dry and dead. You could cut down a tree with a sharp rock if you were strong and determined and supernaturally fast. It wasn't even that hard. Hacking it into sections and then those sections into logs gave him something to do other than sit around and stare at her while she put her clothes on.

 

Down below, Zudarra dressed slowly and clumsily. Her fur was already damp from the rain and the ripped pants did not cover her very well, but at least she was no longer naked. Zudarra wiped tears from her face with her arm when she was done, leaning against the wall by the hearth without sitting. The wind had dried bloody vomit to her fur and when she touched it Zudarra wanted to heave again. But she closed her eyes, forced her clenched fists down to her sides, and breathed.  _ You can't keep acting like this. You have to calm down. _

 

As Saraven hauled a double-armful of wood back through the double doors he saw her standing with her fists at her sides, eyes shut. He watched from the corner of his vision as he piled dry logs into the fireplace.  When she finally opened her eyes to look at Saraven, she was calmer but her eyes were as distant and lifeless as Narial's.  Her expression stung him. Surely the wolf's blood was nearly spent by now, with all that he had done. Why did he still feel barely able to contain himself, to resist falling on her and clutching her to his breast in desperation?

 

_ Don't go away from me. _

 

“ I almost killed you.” Her voice was very flat and hoarse. 

 

"Oh, that," Saraven said, dusting off his mail gloves. He pushed one hand into the pile and released fire, twitching back away from the hearth as it caught with a loud WHOMPH. Light filled the room at once, heat more gradually. The amusement in his tone was weary, battered, but it was real as he looked at her. "It's not the first time nor the second, and it probably won't be the last. I urge you not to worry about it. I won't."

 

A corner of her mouth twitched weakly.

 

“ No, not the first time,” she said. She walked to the table where she had left the bag and pulled out the waterskin. She rinsed her mouth with it, spitting water onto the floor away from the table, and then she drank. Her stomach was beginning to ache from emptiness now, but eating was absolutely the last thing she wanted to do. She came back to the fire, crouched down in front of it with her arms draped over her thighs, and closed her eyes as heat warmed her face. She was still holding the waterskin.

 

_ I have truly become the type of monster Saraven hates most of all. I murdered two people for no reason. Disgusting. _ Images of herself as the wolf trickled in so she opened her eyes to watch the fire, following the dancing curve of flame to keep the memory out. She would process it later when she was alone. Right now she needed to hold herself together.

 

Zudarra sat silently for a long time.

 

He let her alone, circling the room slowly, listening. She must be tired, weak, and he hesitated between nagging her and trying not to smother her. It was hard to feel out the way through all of this.  _ Perhaps I am too old to learn a new thing. _

 

_ Let us not dwell on that thought. _

 

At least she was letting herself be warmed. That was a start. Gradually he became aware of a distant, regular pattering. It was raining outside.

 

For her to be silent for so long was alarming. He was on the verge of saying something stupid about the dead trolls or the state of the walls when the distant sound of hoofbeats struck his ear. He paused, lifting his head, then went to push one of the double doors open and put his head out.

 

Three beating hearts, strong, regular, animal; one softer, jump-pause-jump-jump-pause.

 

"Narial's come back," he said. "Hang on."

 

He went up to find Narial leading the horses into the outer courtyard, under an overhang that had once been the floor of an upper story that was now gone. It was raining hard, rendering the world in shades of gray.

 

"Did it happen?" Narial asked him. He pushed back his helm. His padding was clearly wet through and his hair seemed damp as well.

 

"Yes," Saraven said. "I was too slow." In curt phrases he explained what had happened. "Don't talk to her about it unless she talks to you. She's not well over this."

 

Narial nodded, brows pressed together. Saraven reached out with relief to listen to a mind it was still safe to touch and found horror, concern, but no disgust, no alarm or rejection that might be a problem later.

 

"Good man." He clapped the Imperial on the shoulder. "Come in and get dry, I'll help you carry the things."

 

Narial stopped him with a hand on his arm. "You're looking, ah. Kind of thin?"

 

"Hm?" Saraven stared at his cloudy reflection in Narial's breastplate. His face was indeed growing more cadaverous again. "B'vek. All of this running burns up the blood so fast."

 

Narial shucked a gauntlet and held out his hand, pushing his padding up to the wrist. "Let's not give her that to worry about, then."

 

It was not only a pleasure but a relief. He had been unaware of the thirst creeping up on him. He let it go to the count of five and then stopped, healing Narial and tugging the padding back down, bathing the man's mind in comfort and reassurance. He ached that he could not do the same for Zudarra. He had shown her all of it once – but how often was it the end of the world?

 

"Is that enough?" Narial asked, leaning on Cassy's shoulder for a moment as he gently emerged from the fog.

 

"Yes. I need you strong."

 

Together they hauled down the saddlebags. Narial dry-gagged at the smell. "I wish I'd brought a shovel."

 

"Maybe we can make one out of scrap," Saraven said as he shoved the door open with his shoulder. "It's just a flat thing tied to a long thing, right?" This last part was audible as they went inside. They pushed things about to make a clean space as best they could; the hearth wasn't big enough to pile all the saddlebags on it without something catching fire.

 

"Hello, Zudarra," Narial said, just as if nothing had happened. "I've got clean clothes in this bag."

 

She did not look at them when they entered, but she turned and eyed Narial blandly when he spoke to her.

 

“ Okay,” she said, and turned back to the fire. Why bother? She'd just ruin them again. Her fur was dry and she was warm, beginning to overheat actually. That was good enough. Then she remembered the other thing.

 

“ Did you get a book?” she asked expectantly, finally rising from her crouch.

 

"Yes," he said. "I've got two. There's this one called  _ An Accounting of Werewolves _ and this other one called  _ On Lycanthropy. _ " He turned from laying out a canvas cloth to dig in a saddlebag and pull out the two volumes, offering them to Zudarra. "I didn't have time to read them, so I don't know if they'll help or not."

 

Saraven also did not know the contents of either book. It occurred to him too late that he probably should have read them before he let Narial give them to Zudarra. What if they were less like  _ On Artaeum _ and more like _ The Pig Children _ , just screeds based on hatred and myth?

 

He couldn't tell what she was thinking by looking at her face now, and that was new and terrifying. He wished to reach out to her mind again, but the last time he had found her reeling from what the Breton vampire had done. He would not cause her harm now for the world. And his Zudarra, the one he had chased from gate to gate and even to Dagon's very feet, that Zudarra had hated to be seen as weak at any time, in any place. She would not welcome his attempt at mental reassurance if it meant that he could see her weakness inside as well as out. Let her have whatever scrap of privacy might help.

 

He should ask. He should try. But he did not have the words, and it was a private thing that he wanted even if it was far divorced from the physical, not the sort of thing to talk of in front of Narial.

 

He helped the Imperial armor down for something to do. Narial did not require him to make conversation and did not seem to be easily bored.

 

Zudarra took the books and sat down cross-legged on the canvas, first opening  _ On Lycanthropy  _ because of the more scholarly title. She skimmed it, and after finding nothing useful she actually read it all the way through. Her heart sank as she did so. It contained no information that she did not already know, aside from the fact that a coven of witches in High Rock were rumored to know of a cure. Deep in her heart she already knew that it couldn't be so. If there were any truth to it, Zudarra would have  _ that  _ book in her hands right now.

 

She picked up the second book and rolled her eyes when she saw that the author was a Nord. Nords were excellent at repeating their stupid myths. They were useless if one wanted the facts. She was scowling as she read it, until her eyes landed upon a particular passage.

 

_ Lycanthropes spend eternity in Hircine's Hunting Grounds, slaves to his unending thirst for blood and the chase, instead of drinking mead and brawling with the heroes of legend.  _ Her scowl dropped away, eyes widening. Her breath caught in her throat.

 

_ If I die I will spend eternity as a slobbering beast. My personality will have been destroyed as surely as if Bal had crushed me in his fist. _

 

In a sudden fit of rage Zudarra jumped to her feet and hurled the book at the fire with such force that it slapped against the back wall of the hearth. The light in the room flickered violently as wind briefly smothered the flame. She stood heaving, heart pounding so furiously that her chest ached. She couldn't get enough air, no matter how hard she panted.

 

“ Useless!” Zudarra snapped, turning her head to glare at the others. One clenched fist was raised while the other was still at her side. “Neither even said anything about the moons! I still don't know when the next full will be!” Her voice rose to nearly a shriek.

 

Narial twitched, but to Saraven's surprise, his agitation calmed quickly, damaged heart slowing back down. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'll go outside and see what it looks like, anyway."

 

"Zudarra," Saraven said gently, as the Imperial vanished through the door. "What did it say?" She wasn't this upset because there wasn't a table of the moons, although that would certainly have been helpful. He couldn't read it for himself now that she'd thrown it into the flames.

 

“ It says that I'm stuck in the same shit creek I was before!” she snarled, whirling away to pace up and down before the fire, her tail whipping angrily behind her. “If I die– WHEN I die! I'll be trapped in Hircine's realm forever, trapped in that body forever! I'll be dead and only a stupid wolf will be left of me!” She slapped a broken bowl off one of the tables when she passed by and it went clattering across the floor.

 

"The wolf's blood is immortal blood," Saraven said, leaning against the mantel with one shoulder as he folded his arms. "So there's not a lot of point in worrying about it. I don't think lycanthropes age. And you've managed not to get killed so far. You and I could be alive, together, in Nirn, until the end of the world. Who knows what Hircine will be by then, or if his realm will still endure?"

 

She stopped walking and glared at him.

 

“ Shut up, just shut up, Saraven! Do you really think I'm going to hang around and let you babysit me like some rabid pet that you can't bear to put down? I almost killed you tonight. You shrug it off, but I'm not letting this happen again!” Unshed tears stung her eyes and Zudarra growled at her own weakness, hands clenching spasmodically, uselessly. She whipped away from him.

 

It wasn't until she'd said it that Zudarra realized it was true: she couldn't stay here. Not with him. She was not going to be his burden. She was not going to be put into a situation where she might harm him ever again.

 

"Maybe it won't be that way," he said, keeping his voice level now. Feeding on Narial had helped. He felt more in control. "You don't know. Maybe it gets better. Maybe we just need to go somewhere away from people, let the wolf hunt deer or bears or whatever it can find. Solstheim. The Black Marsh. Out in Elsweyr in the sand. Just until we've learned the moons well enough to understand. Even the High Jeralls would be something."

 

Still facing away from him, she set her elbow in her palm and dropped her face into her hand. She was still breathing so harshly that her shoulders moved with every breath.

 

“ That is not the life I want, Saraven. It's not the one you want, either.” Her voice was tense but measured. Her tail had stopped thrashing.

 

"You have no idea what I want. You never have," he said. "For a while I didn't either. Give it time, I say. You are exhausted and this is a horror. Rest. Calm. I would touch your mind if I thought either that you would wish it or that it would help."

–

She lifted her head from her hand and cut her eyes to the side, although of course she still could not see him.

 

_ “ _ _ You never have”? What is that supposed to mean?  _ Zudarra suddenly realized that she was being unreasonable. None of this was Saraven's fault and she was wrong to snap at him. He'd done his very best to help her from the start of it all without Zudarra having to ask, and not once had she shown any shred of gratitude.

 

Slowly she came back to the fire and Saraven. She sat down on the canvas, leaning back against the hearth. She remembered perfect joy, perfect calm, perfect love.

 

_ Yes, Saraven, make this all go away. Make me your woozy-faced little pet, like Narial.  _ She opened her mouth to tell him to do it but closed it again without speaking, frowning at her feet stretched out before her.

 

“ Come here,” she commanded instead, touching the spot beside her before putting her hand back in her lap.

 

Saraven moved quietly to sit crosslegged beside her with his right knee just touching her left thigh, heat at his back, heat at his right hand. Red-on-red eyes regarded her silently.

 

“ I'd apologize that I smell like puke, but at least you don't have to breath it,” Zudarra said gruffly, eyes moving to glance aside at him without moving her head. She sighed unhappily.

 

"I didn't notice," Saraven said. He hadn't. The mixture of odors that filled the place was a persistent one, and with one thing and another he had hardly been aware of other than that and some hint of blood now too dry to drink.

 

Zudarra’s left arm twitched in her lap a couple of times, and then she moved it between them to find his hand. Her eyes scrunched shut, as if she were bracing herself for something difficult. Saraven shucked his gauntlet as he saw her hand move, letting her have his gray palm in her furry one. At least he wasn't so cold here by the fire.

 

She exhaled when they touched and her face relaxed.

 

Everything was all wrong. It was even worse than before. Zudarra couldn't see how she would ever fix things now. But she did have Saraven, as much as she hated the burden she'd become. Maybe she didn't hate herself enough to give him up just yet.

 

Her hand tightened comfortably on his.

 

“ So what do you want?” she asked softly, finally looking at him.

 

"I want to be where you are. For as long as you live, and if that is forever, then it will be forever," he said calmly. He'd had time to ask himself about it more than once over the last couple of months. "And second to that I want to end evil where I find it. It doesn't have to be an invasion from a daedric realm. It doesn't even have to be vampires. There are many kinds of evil." He turned to look at her, thumb stroking the back of her hand. 

 

Zudarra was sure that she felt her heart stop. She was only able to suck in her next breath after what felt like far too long, making her lightheaded. He watched with some concern until she started breathing again, listening to her heart.

 

"If we had unleashed the wolf on those two necromancers and their creation, would you be sorry?"

 

“ I– well, no. I mean... The transformation is painful and losing control of myself is... But no, of course I wouldn't care if I had killed them. But you can't just use me as your secret weapon. I'm bound to turn on you someday, maybe kill you. Do you know what it would do to me if I woke to discover I'd mauled you to death?” Her hand clenched on his and her claws sprung involuntarily from their sheaths.

 

"Yes," he said. "I do know." He squeezed her hand as the claws retracted. "But what do you think would be turning on me at this point, exactly? I know the wolf will kill me if she can, if she can't get out to hunt otherwise. Today was my fault, and I will not let that happen again. I underestimated her."

 

Zudarra just sighed her defeat. She remembered watching Saraven dousing himself with water at her mother's pump before marching off to his probable death at the hands of dremora, as if soaking his clothes would protect him from the hellfire of the Deadlands. He never quit. He never stopped asking what he could do to salvage any situation. It was, perhaps, his greatest trait in addition to being his most annoying.

 

“ I just don't know, Saraven. I think locking me in a room where I can't hurt anyone, including you, is the smarter option. But I guess we can worry about this later. By the Nine... the moons are full for about a week altogether each month, aren't they? That's a fourth of my life I'll need to be locked away...” Her gaze grew distant and she was looking past him, at an incomprehensibly horrible future.

 

He watched her get that thousand-yard stare again, and the corners of his mouth folded down grimly as he watched. He'd seen it before. Sometimes in a mirror, a long time ago. Best not let her out of his sight.  _ I will not let her go through that. Not as Khajiit or as vampire or as werewolf or as, I don't know, whatever other dreadful transformation this world can throw at us. _

 

"You won't be locked away alone," he said. "If it comes to that." He carefully transferred her hand to his left so that he could reach up with the right and rub the base of her skull with his fingertips. He wasn't sure if that was right for the moment or not. He remembered a time, before he had deadened himself to all touch, when he had been desperate for it, when anything would have melted him but nothing had come.

 

She tensed when he touched her, eyes widening. His hand had been warmed by her own body heat and the fire. And it felt good. And it was Saraven's hand on her neck.  _ Saraven. _

 

_ What is he doing? Why? Is it okay to enjoy this? _ She swallowed thickly, ears turning back as if alarmed, but then she slowly relaxed and her ears rotated forward again. Maybe she would just enjoy the gentle rubbing now and analyze what it meant later.

 

But she couldn't enjoy it  _ too _ much. She watched carefully for the beginnings of a purr, to squash that down if it happened. She would not lose any more of her dignity tonight. She did allow herself to close her eyes, to press back into his touch just slightly. He watched closely, ready to pull back if it was too much, but even if she could make her face still she had not yet gained the ability to control her ears.

 

“ You're right, Saraven. I'm okay. I'll be okay,” Zudarra said, and briefly squeezed his hand. She did not really feel so. But Saraven was trying, and Zudarra wanted to at least meet him half-way.

 

"You will be," he said firmly.

 

Footsteps, jump-stop heart: Narial was making his cautious way back downstairs. He scuffed his feet around outside the door before he opened it and Zudarra's hand jerked out of Saraven's.

 

"The clouds came apart for a second finally," he said as he stepped in, shaking water from his hair. "Secunda looks smaller. Masser is definitely waxing compared to two days ago, last time I saw it. It won't be full tomorrow but maybe the day after that?"

 

Zudarra exhaled loudly at the news. It offered some small piece of relief to know that they had at least two days of rest and planning ahead of them.

 

“ ....Thank you, Narial,” Zudarra said. Although nothing in her voice really indicated as such, the thanks had been meant for bringing her the clothes and the books as much as for checking the moons. She glanced apologetically at Saraven and pushed herself up. Narial was soaked and ought to come over to the fire himself, so Zudarra busied herself putting away the waterskin.

 

Narial nodded to her seriously as he came over to warm his hands. "I'm sorry," he said. Zudarra did not reply, but found herself inwardly ashamed for snapping at him earlier. He was a good man.

 

Zudarra slept fitfully that night, and was only able to sleep at all because she was emotionally exhausted.  Saraven spent much of the night cleaning out the tower room as best he could and as quietly as possible. He did not think that even now he could persuade Zudarra to lie down with Narial for warmth. It wasn't that long ago that they had bedded down a pair of thralls together that way and for that reason; but at least he urged them both to lie near the fire. He gave Narial his customary pat and the lightest ward against the nightmares he thought would still work. If the man was going to continue to visibly improve, he ought to continue to lessen his dependence. He quashed the thought that it would be easier to wait until they needed him less.

 

He wondered idly where Brithe and Galmir were. Had they gone to Chorrol after all? He hadn't seen them in the Fighters Guild, at least, and he knew Brithe had been a member. Perhaps they'd taken to farming or joined the Legion, though either was hard for him to picture.

 

Narial slept the night through. He'd had a very active day. When he had "shoveled" everything out as quietly as he could with his makeshift board-on-a-stick, Saraven paced the room quietly, listening to the hearts of the other two.

 

While she was resting it was easier to believe it would all mend in time. And if they lived they had so much time! He was not sure he would have been able to face it and keep his sanity if he had envisioned being completely alone.

 

He was not ready to relinquish the guilt of what he had allowed the beast to do. Not now. Not ever. That was important. The same as it was important to remember those who had died inside the Leyawiin gate because he was a newborn vampire and could not be trusted to let them out of their cells without killing them. The important thing was that she should always know that, that he never shrink even from the wolf, even less from Zudarra.

 

It seemed like a year before the first sliver of daylight began to creep under the door.

 

Zudarra left by herself to find water to bathe in when she woke. Now that she was no longer too tired to care, the vomit in her fur disgusted her.  Saraven let her go under protest. He struggled silently thereafter between not wanting to leave her alone even for a second and trying to let her have solitude if she needed solitude. That lasted for about five minutes. What if she had one of those blank exhausted half-dead moments when he wasn't there and threw herself off something high? It was that dread that finally made him leave Narial alone with their makeshift shovels and follow her. He pursued silently, invisible, at a distance, just within hearing of her pulse. She came to a small lake after a thirty minute hike, but h e did not watch her or approach. He stayed back behind a hummock, lying cold and unbreathing in the tall grass and listening to that strong heart.

 

The water was unpleasantly cold that early in the morning. Zuddara dried herself with a spare cloth before dressing in some of the clothes Narial had brought from her chest at the Fighter's Guild  –  some gray linen pants that didn't go past her knees, and a very faded puce shirt with a keyhole neckline. It was full of small holes and strings were hanging off all over it, but it was comfortable and smelled of home. She laid there in the tall brown grass by the lake, shivering even when she was dry, staring sullenly at the bright autumn sky. She did not want to return to the fort, to mope around while Saraven and Narial both watched her with distant pity. Eventually she got up to build a fire, spent several minutes trying to light it by rubbing sticks together, realized she did not have the patience or the skills for that activity and headed back.

 

While the others were gone, Narial had found an ancient bucket and an even more ancient well behind a staircase. He sluiced water over the floor and managed to render it slightly less disgusting and definitely better smelling. It was something to do. It was harder after they came back, Saraven first, creeping in quietly and spending a brusque couple of minutes getting blades of grass out of his chainmail so it wouldn't be obvious he'd been gone. When Zudarra returned she found him building up the fire again, Narial sitting on a stair reading one of the books.

 

It was a long day. Zudarra spent most of it staring into the hearth and ignoring everyone else. Every time she closed her eyes she saw red, tasted blood. She had to keep them open. She had to watch the fire. She anxiously rubbed her hands together, touching her fingertips, letting her claws slide from their sheaths to be sure that they were her own. Her tongue explored her mouth, measuring her teeth, checking for errant scraps of human flesh.

 

Saraven circled the room time and again, went and cut more wood, tended the flames patiently: she must be cold, always huddled so close to the hearth, so he kept the fire burning the day long. She did not answer him when he spoke. The first time he thought she must just not feel inclined for it. The second time he tolerated it. The third time, when hours had passed, he dropped to his haunches beside her and reached out to grasp her shoulder.

 

"Zudarra," he said. "Answer me, please. Tell me to fuck off. Something."

 

Zudarra looked aside at the hand on her shoulder. She was sitting on the floor, her arm on the raised hearth, and she was twisted sideways to watch the fire. Being touched when she didn't expect it irritated her just a little, but not enough to make her mad at him.

 

“ What is there to say?” she said, then glanced around the room. She'd been aware of their cleaning. She appreciated that she no longer had to smell rot. Her eyes finally landed on Saraven's own and she said, dryly, “Maybe you could pick up a few paintings to liven up the place.”

 

Saraven huffed through his nostrils, a dry little laugh. He had to inhale deliberately in order to do so. He dropped his hand, feeling no lean into it, seeing that little glance aside.

 

"I'm thinking of commissioning some tapestries. Possibly some sort of arboreal scene, with a pond and nirnroot. They can enchant it to make the right noise." He was well aware that the high tonal wobble constantly emitted by the green weeds was incredibly obnoxious to a Khajiit's more sensitive ears. Zudarra looked disgusted momentarily, before she realized he was joking. Then she smiled tiredly.

 

“ Don't forget the smell of pond scum.” She suddenly realized she had not eaten in a long time, so she got up to fetch food out of the bag.  It was a relief to hear her speak. Saraven’s lips tugged up at one corner, flash of one fang.

 

Saraven had jolted Zudarra out of her morose thoughts, and she discovered that it was easier to distract herself from them when she was talking. The problem was that Zudarra had so little to say – not only because of the circumstances, but in general. She rarely spoke to anyone. 

 

Saraven’s regard for Narial grew that day. The Imperial engaged her attention to himself in several moments when she had been silent too long and Saraven did not know what to say, or how to open a topic. He himself had not been a conversable man in the years before they met. He was not one now. He had never tried to navigate another person's emotions in this way. When he succeeded in rescuing survivors he had always been able to hand them directly over to their family or the Chapel healers, someone who knew what to say. And during the Crisis there had been no time for anyone to think about it at all. But Narial knew not only about weapons but how to talk about them, not only about the Guild but who was in it and what they had done last week.  Zudarra could muster up an opinion or a retort for most things Narial put forth. Time passed much quicker thanks to that idle chatter.

 

Saraven worked and thought on how to keep the creature contained next time. He would not be careless, would not be emotional; but there should be some barricade besides just the bar on the door. He tried dragging the tables in front of it a couple of times, but if it was easy enough for him to do so it would be easy enough for her to push them aside.

 

Perhaps a large rock, a boulder? Even he was not strong enough to push one down here that was big enough to fill the entire doorway, and anything less would simply delay the werewolf as she destroyed the doors around it and climbed out. Still... they were solid doors. It might take her some time. And time was life of man and mer.

 

He warned the others before he started rolling the big rock down the stairs. It was the largest that he could successfully push, and it came only to about his chest. It made a noise like the wrath of a god as it thundered down into the room, but even then its weight was too heavy and its shape too awkward for it to keep going far. He pushed it over to one side to await the proper time. Masser rose at night and by tomorrow it would be full.


	16. Chapter 16

Some time before, in a place far away:

 

Thamaer was very hungry. That wasn't anything really new. He'd been very hungry a lot lately. He was mistaken for a child from time to time, as little and scrawny as he still was at 38. His eyes were big and very black, black like his hair. One and one half ears poked up through the limp, greasy strands that fell to his shoulders. The left ear still worked all right even though the tip was gone. He had a half-moon of round dot scars in two places on his face, above and below his jaw on the left side. There were others, but they mostly didn't show.

 

He huddled against a wall in an alley of the Market District of the Imperial City, surrounded by damp, mossy stone and the gleaming red caps of fly amanita. The alley connected a small plaza to his left where there was a jeweler, and on his right another where there was an armorer. They were fancy places. They'd probably make him leave when they noticed him. Thamaer wore a brown robe he'd scavenged out of the trash. It had been made for an Imperial, probably, someone much thicker through the body and a bit taller as well.

 

As he sat he thought about the Voidstreams and how long it would take a daedra to swim them back to a place of having a body, and he thought about liminal bridges and how they were made, and he thought about sigil stones and which daedra prince would be most likely to give you one without keeping your soul for all eternity. Sometimes he thought about his brother Dornin. Dornin had always known the right thing to do. And now he was gone with Ma and Da. He hoped they were in a better place than Thamaer was in.

 

Still, there were consolations. He scraped moss out of the way and drew diagrams in the film of dirt on the stony ground. He had seen a Test of Pattern once, in a book. If he were going to build his own he would put a gear here and a wheel here and the mechanism would have to really be quite complex but if you knew a clever smith...

 

After a while he ran out of dirty ground in the space around him. He looked around, frowning. Well, that was annoying. He was still hungry. Maybe he should do something about that at some point, but it didn't seem very important. For now he raised his hands and pressed the palms together, then pushed them apart, toward the space in front of him.

 

"I call Naghan," he said.

 

A shape swirled out of nothing, tall and proud, gradually solidifying into something solid: a woman with golden skin and human-round ears and armor made of scraps of golden ringmail. Her boots were tall and gleaming. Her loincloth was made of golden rings. And her beautiful face was contorted with loathing as she recognized him.

 

"I have been summoned – oh, not you again."

 

"I need something to write with," Thamaer said. He looked up at her with big guileless eyes and smothered her attempt to break his will with complete effortlessness.

 

"You are a worm," she growled, clacking the haft of her golden spear against the stony ground.

 

"I need something to write with," he repeated patiently.

 

 

* * *

 

Ranjolf White-Tusk was still chuckling to himself and shaking his head as he shut the door to Rohssan's shop. It had been too many years since he'd seen the old smith- he had little reason to visit these more civilized parts of the province, usually. Today he was only passing through after checking on rumors of a werewolf being killed by the Legion, East of the City. That had turned out to be false, just some hysteria over an abnormally large wolf.

 

He had only taken a few steps away from the front stoop of the shop when movement in the periphery of his vision caught his attention and Ranjolf turned to see a golden figure materialize out of thin air down an alley. His eyes moved calmly between the Saint and the robed figure huddling before it, the gloved fingers of his left hand touching the silver shortsword at his side. He stepped toward them lightly. Silhouetted at the mouth of the alley, it might seem at a glance that a black-furred monster stood watching the mage. But below the long-fanged muzzle of a wolf was a broad, pink-skinned human face, fat lips pursed as he watched with curiosity.

 

At first glance it would be hard to place Ranjolf's race: dark eyes, black brows, a round, somewhat bulbous nose and a heavy jaw were features shared by many men. The wolf hood hid a bald scalp and ears that stuck out too far. His cheeks and nose were marred by deep pockmarks, scalp and jaw both perpetually dark with shadow although he kept himself very clean shaven. But when he spoke, the man's accent easily gave him away as a Nord. Ranjolf was 42, and he looked it.

 

The thick fur cape gathered around Ranjolf's shoulders and spilled down his back, half obscuring the leather armor beneath. He was 6'2 but the beast had been a few feet taller than that.

 

"Do you wish this mortal slain, worm?" demanded the Aureal, lifting her sword to the guard.

 

"What? No! I'll get in trouble," Thamaer said, alarmed. He scrambled to his feet, backing up to the wall. He was not five feet tall. "Go away, Naghan, go away." He waved a hand frantically, and the Golden Saint had time to roll her eyes before she dissolved into sparks.

 

He turned to look at the big man worriedly. He was definitely about to lose the equation he'd been working on, no question, it was just a matter of whether he was about to get a beating as well. "Sorry," he said. "Sorry, I'll just get out of your way."

 

He was dirty and incredibly thin and he stank of the baths he hadn't taken in days, but the thing written on the dirt in front of him was as delicately elaborate as a tatted doily.

 

Ranjolf held up the hand that had been reaching for the sword, palm out.

 

“You are not in my way,” he said. His voice was voluminous and deep, with little inflection aside from the accent. His eyes lingered on the scars on the Bosmer's face before shifting down. He pointed at the ground. “What is that?”

 

"Oh, uh, it's a Test of Pattern," he gabbled, relieved that the man apparently wasn't about to smack him. "Normally it's an array of turbines with a selection of elemental effects that can be cast from effector nodes on the terminus that faces into the main chamber. If the turbines are activated in the wrong order it – uh - " he paused, realizing he was babbling. "I mean... it's not really important, Sir." It occurred to him that he was talking to an actual person for the first time in several days. "...Do you have a pen and paper on you? I'd like to write it down before I forget it."

 

Ranjolf listened with mild curiosity, although little of the babble meant anything to him.

 

“I'm afraid I don't, my friend, but if you come back with me to the inn there will be something to write with,” the Nord said.

 

"Really?" Thamaer stepped away from the wall, eyes huge and black and shining, like a jackdaw's. His voice was squeaky and ragged, no clear indicator of his actual age. "That would be wonderful!”

 

“Certainly. What happened to your face?” the Nord asked flatly.

 

“Oh, that?" The Bosmer rubbed idly at the scars. His fingernails were black. "A werewolf picked me up by the face. Don't worry, I was cured." Ranjolf grunted his understanding. The scars were old enough that there was little point asking follow up questions; either the wolf was dead, or it was gone.

 

Thamaer turned to stare down at his design, squinting as his eyes darted back and forth. "All right, let's hurry, while I still remember it." Belatedly he wondered if this was going to be one of the pants-off people again. That had been bad last time. On the other hand they usually had food.

 

The Merchant's Inn was not far, just a few streets away. Ranjolf had not intended to be back there today. He'd actually been on his way to the stables, and was somewhat anxious to return to the priory. But the All-Maker had lead him to this mer for a reason. The poor fellow looked like he could do with a hot meal.

 

“I am Ranjolf White-Tusk. What's your name, elf?” he asked as he walked, slowing his long-legged stride so the shorter man could keep up.

 

"I'm Thamaer," he said. "Are you a Nord? Skyrim is awfully far from here." He had to take two steps to every one of Ranjolf's. His legs ached and his balsa wood sandals flapped awkwardly on the stone paving.

 

“Aye. About as far from here as is Valenwood,” Ranjolf said, looking down at the top of Thamaer's greasy hair with humor in his dark eyes. “But I am from Solstheim, farther still.”

 

He waited as a man came out the door of the inn and then shouldered his way inside, ducking to avoid the lintel, and held the door for the Bosmer. The ground floor bustled with travelers coming and going, as it was one of the few inns left intact in the City. Ranjolf wouldn't be surprised if some of these people were living here while their homes were rebuilt. They also served decent food, and the room smelled invitingly of fresh bread and baked meats.

 

Belatedly Thamaer realized the man was not just wearing a silly hat, and his eyes got even bigger as he leaned back to look at it. "That must've been a huge wolf!"

 

“Aye,” Ranjolf agreed as he approached the bar. “A werewolf always is. I have never seen one smaller than me. Sir, would you bring a plate of today's special along with pen and paper for my friend?” The Imperial at the bar eyed Thamaer wearily – if he'd come in alone, he would have chased the obvious beggar off immediately.

 

“Certainly,” the man said stiffly, and stooped to rummage in a cabinet under the bar. Ranjolf was already leading his new friend to an unoccupied table in the corner. The Imperial followed belatedly, laying down a pen, an inkwell, and several sheets of paper on the table as Ranjolf eased down into a chair. He stretched his booted feet out under the table and leaned back easily with his arm across the chair back.

 

“Just a few minutes for the food,” the barman said, turned, and disappeared through the kitchen doorway.

 

"You killed a werewolf by yourself?" Thamaer's stomach complained at the mingling of delicious smells, but it was the paper that he stared at hungrily. He climbed into a chair completely trustingly and seized up the pen with a shaking hand. He trembled, all over and constantly, but his movements were fluid as he began to replicate the design for his machine.

 

“No one does anything by themselves. If you look behind every victory you will see those that guided your sword to where it needed to be. And as always, my girls were with me.” Ranjolf watched the Bosmer writing in what may as well have been Ehlnofex as far as he was concerned. In the margin he sketched a sigil stone for his liminal bridge, so that he would not forget to write down the procedure. It wasn't related but it was just as important to Thamaer.

 

There was something else important, something he'd missed. He paused with quill in hand, staring across the table at the Nord.

 

"Did you ask him to bring food?"

 

“Mmhmm. I hope you won't mind the presumption, but you look like the wind will blow you away if you get any thinner.”

 

"Oh, thank you. I don't really like eating but I get all dizzy if I don't and it's been - " How long had it been, anyway? Two days? Three days? He hadn't bothered keeping track. That had been somebody else's problem for a long time and then there was nobody else at all. Only Thamaer. And if he was very lucky sometimes there was paper. Like now. He shrugged and dismissed the less important matter. " - a while. Wait, what girls?" He looked around as if busty Nord women were about to materialize from the woodwork, which in his case entailed an expression of preemptive wariness, as though he might need to suddenly sprint from the room.

 

Ranjolf grinned, showing his big white teeth.

 

“Maybe you can meet them later.” He tapped the table by the paper with a gloved finger. “Don't lose your place, now, friend.”

 

"You're right. The activator mechanism is very delicate." He wrote hurriedly until the food appeared, quill scritching like a tap-dancing beetle chorus. There was an occasional inkblot, which he would very carefully wipe away with his filthy sleeve. He drew a neat arrow pointing to the right from the sigil stone to indicate continuation on another page.

 

It was a woman who came out with Thamaer's breakfast, a plate of sausages, baked potato, and toast with a big slab of butter on it, and a tall glass of water. She set it on the table between them.

 

“Can I bring you gentlemen anything else?”

 

Thamaer waved at the woman without looking up, conscious only of movement. One hand groped around and found the toast, which he dragged across the table into reach and began picking smaller bits from. You had to eat slow when it had been a long time, or you got very sick.

 

“No, thank you,” Ranjolf said. She smiled and nodded and was gone. Even though he had eaten not too long ago, Ranjolf found the smell of the sausage very tempting.

 

"There. That's reasonably complete." The Bosmer straightened eventually, chewing, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, inevitably leaving a smear of ink across one side of his face. He had filled two pages and set them aside to dry and now reached for a third, lining it up carefully with the sigil stone. "What do you actually want, though? I'm not very good at um... anything, really. If you're going to want anything that involves clothes coming off I want a wash first." That was fair. Lots of people would've asked for money. Maybe he could bargain for an empty book with an oilskin cover, something he could carry with him that would hold up better to the damp.

 

Ranjolf frowned with visible disgust at the suggestion, and it took him a few moments to find his voice. It was not often that he was left speechless.

 

“...I want a wizard,” he said honestly, both fists resting comfortable on the table. “But that has nothing to do with why I brought you here. God asks the creatures of the world to care for one another.” He did not bother mentioning his god by name. Ranjolf knew that he would be viewed dismissively by most others if he explained, and it didn't really matter.

 

"Really? Huh." Thamaer was puzzled by that. He was aware of a lot of different gods, but usually people referred to them by their various names. His attention was immediately redirected to the sketch in front of him, a far more interesting subject.

 

“You seem to be good at something. But have you ever actually seen a sigil stone?” Ranjolf asked, gambling that this is indeed what the mage had drawn.  He thought he recognized one on the first page, but wasn’t certain.

 

"Oh, sure. They have one in the Praxographical Center in the University that the Hero of Kvatch donated, from the Bruma Gate to the Deadlands. I sneaked in there... a month ago, I think?" He grinned at a memory, showing that one of his upper canines was missing. "That was the best week of my life." He had read every book he could find until somebody figured out he wasn't really an apprentice and he got thrown out. They had thought he was rather stupid. He hadn't been able to answer most of their questions because he was thinking about something else.

 

The toast was gone, he noticed. He reached for a sausage next. It was fat and juicy and hot, and he paused to enjoy that for a second, inky black eyes squinted half-shut as he chewed. He kept his mouth closed mostly out of old habit.

 

“I see. I have one as well, back at the priory. You can come with me to see it, if you like. It's just outside of Kvatch. Now, this will sound harsh, and I'm sorry for that, but: are you sound of mind? This thing you are drawing; is it a real thing?” He spoke very bluntly, and was well aware that if Thamaer was not sound of mind he may not know it. But it was better to be direct about this sort of thing.

 

"Only in theory," Thamaer said, and paused to hurriedly eat another bite, in case he was about to get thrown out of the inn. "It's physically possible to build, but it would take a goldsmith's level of delicacy to make some of the parts, and it takes tons of brass and iron to build a Test of Pattern. Building a summoning platform for a liminal bridge is child's play in comparison." He poked the sigil stone with a greasy finger. "You just need an even clean surface for drawing symbols, and time, and no interruptions. At that point it's the power of the summoner and the energy of the sigil stone. I can keep Naghan here for ten minutes. In a good week, when I've been eating and sleeping, I could open a bridge and live and only be tired. And then a liminal bridge stays open until it is closed on purpose. And closing it is not very easy. Usually you worry more about the daedra prince doing that from their end, if they notice there's a gate into their realm."

 

Thamaer spoke the Aureal's name as if he expected the Nord to know who that was. He realized belatedly that he had been asked another question and had discarded it as less interesting. "Oh, wait. You asked if I was sane. I don't know? I know I'm not like other people. But my drawings are real. Those are things that can be done or made."

 

Ranjolf nodded seriously, one brow arching when Thamaer mentioned the liminal bridge. He sat thinking for a moment after the Bosmer had stopped talking. Then he spread out his left hand, bringing his right back into his lap.

 

“I'll lay my cards on the table, now,” Ranjolf said. “I command the Order of the Righteous Blade. We are hunters and knights who serve Prince Meridia.” He did not lower his voice, even for fear of wandering ears. In these times, Daedra worship was vehemently discouraged, even one as seemingly benevolent as Meridia. Ranjolf did not care to hide his work. “I need a mage who knows what you know. Specifically, I need a liminal bridge. You'd have room, board and equipment provided to you. You may come back with me even if you do not join the order, and even if it turns out you are less sane than you think you are. Nothing I offer comes with a price.”

 

"When you say equipment, can I have a book bound in oilskin?" Thamaer asked immediately.

 

“Of course. It might be easier to pick that up now. It is still difficult to get some things in Kvatch. You can bathe here while I get it.”

 

Thamaer sat up eagerly, grinning almost from pointy ear to pointy ear. The scar stretched his cheek on the left side, an old familiar pang.

 

"Thank you so much! It's all I've ever wanted!"

 

Maybe there had been a time when he had wanted something more, but that was long ago, on the other side of a wet red nightmare. He tried not to think about it.

 

Ranjolf flagged down a barmaid and asked that a bath be drawn for the elf, when he was finished with his meal, in the room Ranjolf had used the night before. He set down enough gold to pay for the meal, the extra day on the room, plus a generous tip, and then he stood to leave with the promise that he would return soon.

 

Thamaer gathered up his precious papers in one hand and a sausage in the other and allowed himself to be led to the bath. He was oblivious to the hired woman's curiosity and disgust, cheerfully thanking her and setting his new diagrams on top of a dresser well away from the water before he started stripping. The barmaid shut the door behind her hurriedly on her way out. He wasn't really bothered by being dirty, but hot water felt good and scrubbing even better. It was nice to have the smell of soap in his hair and be able to see light through the tips of his nails.

 

“Clothes by the door. I'll wait below,” Ranjolf said through the bathroom door when he returned, rapping on it once.

 

"All right!" he called back to the Nord – what was his name? - as he climbed out of the now-black water a copper-colored elf. He had funny tan lines from being outside in the City so long. Was it Bandorf? Brinjolf? He'd remember at some point, probably. When Thamaer emerged from the bathroom he found a new linen robe, underclothes, and a cloth belt all folded up neatly on the floor, the journal and a leather pouch of charcoal sitting on top of it. A new pair of soft shoes with curled toes sat beside them. Clean clothes were nice but he almost forgot to put them on as he thumbed through the crisp, clean pages of his new book, imagining what might be drawn in it. And charcoal! So much better than ink! He could -

 

He could get dressed, or somebody would be angry, probably. He slid his papers into the book and hurried into his new clothes, pausing for just a moment to wiggle his toes in sybaritic joy at their new warmth. The robe was a little loose, but it was a much better fit than his old one. He left the old things on the floor without giving them a second thought and went downstairs to follow his new best friend out through the city. The hells with sex, at that moment he would have committed murder without a second thought. Well, he would have summoned something that would.

 

He stuck very close to Rindbulf as they went, wary of passersby as he always had to be, but people just got out of the big man's way. He was wearing a werewolf on his head. Nobody wanted to bother him. Thamaer wondered belatedly if he ought to be afraid himself, but so far this human had been nicer to him than anybody he'd met in ages.

 

At the stable outside of town, pair of floppy-eared hounds were standing with their paws on the fence, long ropy tails wagging so hard that their rear ends shook. They could have easily slipped under the fence meant to contain horses but they did not, waiting until Randolf had opened the latch on the gate to push their way out and swarm him. He dropped to one knee and let the dogs whine and lap at his face, grinning and opening his arms to contain their energetic wiggling while Thamaer hid behind him. They were white and short-haired. One of them had a red spot that covered her left eye and ear.

 

“My girls, Edla and Olda.” He stood and patted the pure white hound with an affectionate smile, then the spotted one. “Heel, girls.” The dogs stopped fidgeting immediately, sitting down at either side of the man and looking up at him expectantly, pink tongues flicking out to lick their noses. Standing, they were a little taller than Thrandor’s knee. Up close they were sort of pretty with their little fat noses and their big round eyes.

 

Then the Nord introduced his horse, a gelding named Vipir. He was a very sturdy looking golden palomino who came trotting up to the fence to watch Barndof with big brown eyes, blowing into the Nord's palm when he stroked a hand over his nose. The horse seemed nice, but Thamaer had never ridden a horse. He might fall off.

 

He didn't fall off. He rode pillion behind Thanwolf, which was like holding onto a warm tree.

 

It was a two day ride to Skingrad, and would be another half day to their final destination after that. That first night Rinjolf gave the Bosmer his own bed roll when they made camp.

 

Being given his own bedroll didn't completely shock Thamaer. It looked like Zandolf actually didn't mean to ask for anything from him but mage-work, and he was perfectly able to do that. The dark forest didn't scare him. He remembered Valenwood, dimly and far away from when he had been very small. Even years of city living had not made him lose the ability to recognize the sounds of birds and insects. He used his new charcoals to sketch a moth that landed on his knee as he sat on the bedroll. It was gray, with a pattern on its wings that looked a bit like eyes, and fit nicely into the margin of his Test of Pattern. Waste not, want not.

 

He glanced up while the Nord was armoring down, rubbing at his cheek with a thumb. He left behind a black smudge from the charcoal. When he removed his gloves it became apparent that a good chunk of the Nord's right hand was missing – pointer, middle, and ring finger as well as part of the palm. He still used that hand as readily as if nothing had been wrong with it, although obviously his grip was much weaker.

 

"Did a werewolf do that to your hand?"

 

“Aye, it did,” Randur said, and held up the hand for Thamaer to see, making a crab-like pincering gesture with his remaining digits. “Thought I would never hold a sword again. But I did.” Then he turned to dig around in one of his bags, coming up with several packets of dried offal. He was about to toss one to Thamaer, thought better of it, and instead walked over to hand it to the elf instead. He could too easily imagine Thamaer getting smacked in the face without even attempting to catch it. Thamaer took the packet after a moment's blank look as the moth danced away past his face, pale reflection in the black surface of his eyes, even though the Nord had been moving carefully to avoid disturbing it. The Nord stood over the Bosmer examining his drawing for a moment. He smiled very slightly, but didn't say anything.

 

Then he settled himself down in a pile of dogs on the ground with his back against a tree, facing the fire with his great wolf cape draped over them all like a blanket. One dog curled against either hip with their heads resting across his thighs, he unwrapped the rest of the packets in his lap. The hounds licked their lips but didn't grab the meat from him. Rather, they waited patiently as he fed a piece to one dog, then the other, and then ate one himself before repeating the pattern. Thamaer watched the Nord to see what he was doing and eventually concluded it was food that he’d been given. He opened his own packet and popped a piece in his mouth, chewing industriously. It wasn't bad. Most things were all right really.

 

“Your werewolf,” the Nord said. He was stroking Olda's ear with his right hand while giving offal to Edla with his left. “Was it ever killed?”

 

Thamaer listened to possibly Horgalf's question seriously, swallowing before he answered.

 

"I don't know. I was sick for a while even after I was cured." That was the only way he could think of to describe what he remembered, living in an agonized fog of grief and confusion. "I don't remember some of the things people told me. It didn't matter to me at the time. I didn't care how it happened, I just knew everyone was dead."

 

The Nord nodded solemnly. He knew the story without having to be told; it was one he heard too often. He decided not to pry.

 

Thamaer was for the most part very quiet as they went. He spent any spare moment drawing, sketching, and writing notes in his new book. Who knew how long he would have the chance? After spending the next night in the Skingrad inn, they arrived at the priory on the third day.

 

The home of the Order of the Righteous Blade had been a farm, once. A long dirt road diverged from the Gold Road and lead through a thick forest, which suddenly opened up to reveal a huge expanse of cherry, peach, and apple orchards beyond a cluster of stone buildings. The dirt road ended in a wide loop, encircling a round garden. In the center of this rose a statue of a robed woman on a tall pedestal, her hands clasped in front of her. Paths lead away from the circle drive to a two-story stone farmhouse, and across from that stood a couple of squatter stone huts. The stable and kennel were both wooden buildings newer than the others. Brandolf greeted all the workers there by name and helped to gear down his own horse before leading Thamaer to the main building with his bag, the hounds trotting happily along behind him. Two more marble statues as tall as Thamaer flanked the front door, both robed women with one hand over her heart and the other raised to the sky. They were strangled by ivy, as was the entire front wall from foundation to roof.  

 

Thamaer stuck close to the Nord’s shadow, looking around him huge-eyed. Everything was big and clean and absolutely covered in green plants even though it was fall. Maybe the ivy was late to drop its leaves, or maybe the aura of the daedra prince kept it green year round. This felt like a holy place. It tweaked the magical senses in odd ways. When he wasn't paying attention sometimes he thought he heard a choir, high and far away.

 

The inside of the main building was very plainly decorated. One might expect to see wolf heads or claws on display as trophies, but there were none, only a few tapestries on the walls depicting either Meridia in a pose similar to the statues or the slaying of various undead. Every window was ajar and every curtain had been pulled back to flood the old farmhouse with the golden light of late afternoon and the scent of autumn breeze. This room had been comfortably furnished with several plush chairs arranged in a sitting area near the fireplace. Tall bookcases that held more empty space than books lined the walls. The books they did hold were dog-eared old things that smelled of age and the handling of many people. They were about equally divided between arms manuals, bestiaries, and religious texts. Many had been authored in that very place, never to have seen the light of day elsewhere. A scuffed up writing desk was pushed against the wall by the door, right under a window, white linen curtains brushing gently against the tabletop.

 

A staircase to the left of the room lead up to a second floor, although there was no second floor directly above the entry room and the ceiling was very tall. Everything was very clean and dustless, even the iron chandeliers hanging down from the rafters. Archways lead out of the room on three sides.

 

Another Bosmer was slouched in a chair playing with a tin whistle, her socked feet crossed over a tea table. She jumped up when the front door opened.

 

“Commander!” she chirped. “You're back!” She bounced over to them as Thindor set down his bag. She tried to pat the girls, who swarmed her with wiggling butts faster than her hand could really follow them. After circling her several times they shot off upstairs, claws scraping against hardwood, probably to greet someone else they'd been missing. The Bosmer clasped the whistle behind her back in both hands, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet as she turned her attention to the others. She was dressed in loose linen pants and tunic, her ash blonde hair falling just to her shoulders. Red henna dots curved over her brows and down the sides of her face. She was small but sinewy, about an inch shorter than Thamaer, and her black eyes moved over him appraisingly without lingering on the scars.

 

In the event, Thamaer didn't notice the other Bosmer at all. His eyes were locked on the books as he clutched his oilskin-bound journal to his chest. There weren't lots and lots, not like the University, but still they were there and undoubtedly he hadn't read most of them -

 

Somebody was saying his name.

 

“Thamaer, this is Celegil, one of my knights. Thamaer will be joining the Order. Our new friend is a mage, a skilled conjurationist at that,” The Nord was saying. He would remember the name Celegil. He'd had a cousin called Celegil. Probably still did, off in Valenwood somewhere.

 

“That's wonderful news. Welcome, Thamaer, and Blessings of Meridia to you!” Celegil said, smiling kindly and offering her hand, holding her fingers out very straightly. Thamaer peered at her hand, then reached out to pat the palm of her hand with the tips of his fingers. It seemed awkward. It was awkward.

 

"Hello," he said. "Blessings of... Meridia?" He was already plotting to sneak down here after nightfall and read the books. He had a light spell. It wasn't a very good one, but it didn't need to be.

 

Celegil laughed, a high, lilting twitter, and then stifled it by biting her lip. She let her hand rejoin the other behind her back.

 

“I'm sorry, Thamaer, I've spent too much time around humans. Shaking hands is –”

 

"Ranjolf, you old bastard, finally!" boomed a voice from the top of the stairs. Celegil turned and smiled. Agrius was a sturdy, muscular fellow of about the middle height, brown beard neatly trimmed, hair tied back in a short tail. Inside the priory he was out of his ebony plate and wearing a dark red woolen tunic, gray trousers tucked into his leather boots. His nose was a little red. It usually was. He had been delayed somewhat by the need to kneel down and pat Edla and Olda, and then the need to wipe his face of the evidence of canine affection acquired thereby. Now the dogs trotted happily back down ahead of him, tongues lolling.

 

He came stamping downstairs in a way that quite alarmed Thamaer, who edged behind the Nord again. Ranjolf, right, that was the name. Ranjolf.

 

"A courier brought word of an attack out West of here. Farmers say a pair of rabid wolves killed two women and ran off. The Legion found a boy who tells a tale at odds with theirs. He might just be confused because he's been through horrors, or he might have seen a werewolf and some ally with a speed fortification. The whole story doesn't make complete sense." All of them knew how unreliable eyewitness accounts could be. They had been told of a pack of ten werewolves when there were two; they had been told of a single werewolf when it had been a pack of wild dogs; they had been told there were five dead when there were fifteen, the bodies so torn that it was difficult to count them at a glance.

 

As he spoke he came up and clapped Ranjolf heartily on the shoulder. He had to reach up. Ranjolf grinned and clapped Agrius back, squeezing his shoulder with wide-splayed fingers. Light brown eyes moved curiously to the pair of feet visible around Ranjolf's right leg. "Who's this little fellow? Come on out, I'm not going to eat you. Morning, Celly."

 

Someone more alert to cues than Thamaer might have possibly taken this as an offensive reference to certain aspects of traditional Bosmer culture (it wasn't, that thought had never occurred to Agrius in his life). Thamaer instead looked up at the Nord dubiously, as if to ask if this was really one of his allies.

 

“This is our new mage, Thamaer, from the Imperial City,” Ranjolf said, releasing Agrius and stepping aside so the man could get a look at him. He was smiling down at Thamaer now, and gestured to the Imperial. “And this is Agrius. It is as I warned you before: He is quite the loud mouth, not to be taken seriously!”

 

"Er... hello," Thamaer said, suddenly exposed with only his book for protection. He tried not to look as though he were hiding behind that, too. He was a mouse beside these people.

 

 _I'm still taller than whatserface. Celegil. You were going to remember that one._ That thought gave him slightly more fortitude, stiffening his spine.

 

Ranjolf straightened and became serious, although his eyes still smiled.

 

“How long ago did this attack happen? I'd like to ride out immediately, just as soon as I get Thamaer settled in. Is Silver around?” There were others who came when they needed rest or worship and went away again when work called to them, but Celegil, Agrius, and Silver-Seas-Swimmer had taken up permanent residence at the priory.  These three were Ranjolf's closest allies and friends, and none of them had any family to return to aside from each other.

 

"Looks like the attack happened night before last. And he's out back shooting. You know how he gets." Agrius shrugged his incomprehension. "You do, don't you? Beats the hells out of me. Anyhow I can be armored up in two shakes. You sure you don't want to stop for a quaff and a bite first? You've had a long ride."

 

Ranjolf did know. He had been very much the same before age and distance healed most of his own wounds.

 

“My friend, I will happily drink to a victorious hunt as _soon_ as we return,” Ranjolf said, grinning and tilting his head as if ready to shake it in exasperation. He lightly touched Thamaer on the shoulder and gestured with his other hand toward the stairs, shepherding him up. He said over his shoulder, “I'll meet you all at the stables in a few minutes.”

 

He lead Thamaer down a long hall, past rows of shut doors in flaking white paint, finally stopping to open the second to the last on the right side of the hall. Thamaer looked around vaguely as they went, trying to keep the route in mind and not let himself be distracted. Inside, the single window overlooking the practice field and the distant orchards had been closed and curtained, and a large bed with headboard against one wall had been neatly made. A wardrobe (filled with very large clothes), a wash basin on a small table, and a little reading desk with a chair were against the opposite wall. There was a shelf, but it was empty aside from a box of candlesticks, a pile of rags, and a single book laying flat on its side. It was a collection of dirty jokes. In one corner loomed a tall suit of Orcish armor on a stand – It must have weighed more than a hundred pounds. A sheathed silver longsword hanging in a baldric from a peg on the wall nearby. Unlike the rest of the house, this room was slightly dusty. Spiders had moved into the high corners.

 

“This will be your room,” Ranjolf said. He had stepped inside far enough for Thamaer to come past him, his hand still on the knob. “I'll have that armor removed when I get back. I'm sorry I can't show you around right now, but I promise I'll fill you in on everything later. In the meantime you can go where you like here. The wash room is the last one beside yours. The kitchen is downstairs, right off the stairs. The shrine is the stone building by the stables, if you wish to pray, and Meridia will not mind if it's not to her.” He winked at the Bosmer, then added with his usual bluntness, “Will you be all right here?”

 

Thamaer looked blankly at the wink. That usually meant a joke or something, or that someone was about to suggest something inconvenient, but neither seemed to be the case here. He filed it away for later. At least he didn't have to memorize a bunch of prayers, that was nice.

 

There was light creaking from down the hall as Celegil entered and shut her own room nearer the stairs. The hounds had followed her up. The red-spotted dog laid down against her door, while white Edla came over to stand in Thamaer's doorway, tail wagging and tongue lolling as she looked inside.

 

"Nobody else will be in here?" Thamaer asked. It was hard to imagine. The bed looked to him to be big enough to hold five or six people. "I mean yes, of course, it's fine. It's huge. Did he die, the one who was in here before? Hello, Edla."

 

“Aye, he did. The nasties, they do win now and then. Onag won't begrudge you his old room or anything he left behind,” Ranjolf said. He was not offended by the bluntness of the question and felt no pain to be reminded of Onag's passing. He had times, in private, for feeling such things. Edla wagged harder and looked up from a lowered head when she heard her name, but she backed up when the Nord turned around to go.

 

“We will return within the week. Good-bye, Thamaer.” He closed the door behind himself, leaving it slightly ajar. Ranjolf wasn't sure if Thamaer was naturally scatterbrained or if it had been the result of emotional trauma, but survivors of the kind of attacks he had lived through were often hypervigilant of escape routes.

 

Celegil was already downstairs in her mithral mail, chain skirt layered over leather pants tucked into leather boots. The mithral hood was laying against her back and her hair had been pulled into a tail. Four silver daggers and a potion bag were strapped to her baldric. They went out together to join the others, Celegil bouncing happily on the balls of her feet with every step.

 

Silver-Seas-Swimmer was drawing his bow at the primitive target range, a series of hay bales with very crude werewolf outlines painted on them and little red target dots on various points of "anatomy." Celegil had painted them. That was probably why they were blurrier up at werewolf head height, which was considerably out of her reach.

 

The Argonian was a tall fellow, comely enough by the standards of his people, broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted and with a symmetrical fat tail. Parallel claw-scars marred the scales on the right side of his chest and ribs, usually visible in his customary hide trousers. He was brown in front and under his jaw, green on top and in back, gently blending between colors on his sides. He had no horns on the right at all, only scars. On the left he had only a couple of apology spines. His eyes were the same green as his upper scales and were usually narrow, making him look almost eyeless.

 

Agrius came trundling out the back door in his ebony plate, heavy two-handed silver sword on his back. The armor made him look even wider and slightly tapered toward the top, like a gleaming black... thing that was black and gleaming.

 

"Oy, Silver," he said, voice slightly echoing from inside the domed helmet. "We're riding out Westward. Possible attack at a farm out that way. You geared up?" He knew by this point that the Argonian customarily did not wear armor. His way had always been to move fast and use his silver-tipped poisoned arrows from range. No one would call him a coward after their first run together. If a fight went long he could go a bit mad. Agrius had seen him attack a werewolf with his teeth when he ran out of projectiles.

 

Now the Argonian grunted an affirmative and stalked over to yank arrows out of the hay targets, doeskin loincloth flapping above his rough-stitched trousers. "One envenoms the arrows. Stables?"

 

"Yeah. Soon as you can." Agrius wasted no time talking to him. There was no point. He just turned and headed for the horses. It took a very large brown stallion to carry the weight of the ebony, almost half again the weight of the paint Silver usually rode. It was an ill-tempered creature and tended to try to bite him when he wasn't paying attention; some stallions were like that. All you needed was a firm hand to the bridle. And an ebony helmet covering your ears.

 

* * *

 

It was dusk when they reached the Vitelli farm. Ranjolf asked the others to wait while he knocked on the door of the big farmhouse. He listened carefully to the farmers' stories. They were almost hostile about it, obviously grieving and wishing to be left alone to do so in peace. Ranjolf understood that and tried to be sensitive as he listened and spoke to them. The two men who had witnessed the carnage told odd stories and both had fainted from shock after witnessing the Khajiit's death. That happened more rarely than depicted in fiction, and for two people to faint at once? No, something was amiss here, something more than a simple werewolf attack.

 

Ranjolf asked to speak to the boy whose story differed from the others. Titus Vitelli, father of the boy and one of the young women who had died, angrily asked Ranjolf to leave. The Nord nodded solemnly and let himself out. He was halfway to his horse when he heard the distant slap of a back door and then footsteps. Ranjolf turned to see a teenage boy standing by the side of the house dressed in the same sort of homespun his father and brother had worn, fists clenched at his sides. The Nord waited patiently. Crickets were singing and the evening breeze brushed against the grass. The various distant storage buildings cast long black shadows across the lawn.

 

“It wasn't wolves,” the boy said thickly. He was glaring past Ranjolf in a cold rage. He started walking down the road, toward the animal pen where the attack had taken place. Ranjolf took Vipir's reigns and followed, motioning for the rest of the party to come as well. The boy stopped and pointed to a spot on the ground where the earth had been overturned with a shovel to remove blood. The girls were already there, feverishly pacing the area with their noses to the ground, hackles raised. One of them growled. Ranjolf immediately knew it had been a werewolf, even if Silver hadn't been around to confirm it with that Argonian nose of his.

 

“This is where Mahrazidi died.” He pointed toward the fence, not far away. “That's where my sister, Vaneria, died.”

 

“So it was a werewolf?” Ranjolf asked. “Why did the others faint?”

 

“Yes. It was massively huge. It fell down like it was having a seizure, and a strange Dunmer in chainmail came and picked it up when it started to shrink. My father and brother collapsed then. I don't know why. Then the Dunmer ran away with the wolf in his arms so fast that my eyes couldn’t even follow. When they woke up they kept repeating that stupid story over and over...!” The boy had been speaking in a monotonous voice until the end, when rage and grief overran his tone. He was glaring at the distant spot where his sister had died. Ranjolf touched his shoulder.

 

“I will slay the beast that took your sister from you,” he said gently. There was more he would have liked to say, but knew it would probably not be welcome, and it probably would not help. This young man would have to sort his grief out by himself. Ranjolf silently asked the All-Maker to bring peace to the Vitelli family and then turned to mount his horse.

 

“Go back inside now, boy. Your family needs you to be strong,” Ranjolf said. He looked seriously at each of the others, and they would know the look on his face – it was time to hunt. The sun was setting and a full Masser would soon rise. For the sake of the afflicted, Ranjolf always hoped to meet them in wolf form. He would kill a person if he had to, but it was hard.

 

“Girls, hunt,” he said. The hounds shot off, weaseled under the fence and then out the other side of it. Falx Vitelli watched the four horses and their riders gallop across the fields until their thundering hooves had faded and only the calm evening noises remained.

 


End file.
